1000 Prompts Challenge
by Alphabet Pie
Summary: I'm not sure what's happening with this right now, but hopefully I'll be able to continue it some time. 411, although other pairings, and Transformers, are involved. Warnings: bad language, all sexualities, threesomes, twincest, gay robots, angst, lemons, zombies, mpreg and worse.
1. 001 Panorama

**001 - Panorama**

The hill had been the centrepiece of the town for forever; once the site of a castle that had long since fallen it was now home to a few trees, a forlorn looking lump of overgrown rubble, and a bench.

Vexen didn't remember the bench, actually, but it had been a while since he'd come up here, owing to his state of perpetual misery and consequent inability to enjoy such sights as were offered by the bench's position high on the old castle hill.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?"

Vexen glanced up at his companion, and habitually frowned. Marluxia was leaning on the back of the bench, overlooking the sprawling town below them and beyond it the countryside, barely visible through the mist. The weather was miserable, raining patchily. The sky was covered with clouds, no trace of sunlight even splitting through in the far distance. Marluxia, for all his apparently amazing skills and traits that he always seemed to be boasting or complaining about, didn't even have the ability to check the weather forecast. The moron.

Vexen sighed, shook his head, and turned back to the slowly festering package of newspaper slowly seeping greasy warmth into his lap. He felt like he should eat, but if he unwrapped the parcel it would get wet and be even less appetising than the monstrocity that Marluxia had managed to cook up the other day with what was left in the cupboard. Which wasn't much. And that wouldn't do at all.

Marluxia appeared to have come to the same conclusion, and tutted a little as he squeezed water from the fluff of his wings. Vexen wanted to ask if Marluxia could possibly lower himself to covering him with one of his huge wings, but the angel was stuck up on such a high horse that he highly doubted it. So he turned back to the view that was slowly being engulfed completely by the fog.

"Can't we go home?"

Marluxia spun in a full circle, surveying the situation. Then his face cracked into a wide smile that worried Vexen very much indeed. This was one of those tacking-Vexen-onto-a-mattress-is-a-brilliant-idea smiles, and that was definitely not good news at all.

"No."

Vexen dared not ask as Marluxia closed his eyes and spread his arms and fingertips out as far as they would go, and for several moments nothing happened.

Then the sky seemed to yawn, and a little sparkling circle of sunlight fell into Vexen's lap. He glanced up at the ray of light descending from the tiny gap in the clouds, protecting his fish and chips from the rain. Then, rolling his eyes a bit at this rather pathetic display, he glanced around at Marluxia.

"Damn it," The angel muttered; "This is harder than it looks."

"Why don't we just go home, then," Vexen retorted, shaking his head a little. He was in return given a little grunt and - _whoosh_ - suddenly the clouds opened up like curtains, just about long enough to cover the bench in golden rays. Marluxia climbed over the back, brushed away some water into shimmering, wobbly droplets in the air and then splashes on the floor, and sat down next to Vexen, stretching out his wings in the sunlight.  
"That's better."

Vexen glanced up at the gap in the clouds, rather suspiciously bench shaped, sighed, and unfolded his lunch.

"You are so unsubtle."

There was a bit of a childish huff from Vexen's Guardian Angel (in training). "You're welcome, Mr Smart-Arse."

"I thought I told you not to swear."

Marluxia scoffed.

"Fuck that," He said cheerfully, closing his eyes and basking in the sunlight as all around them rain dripped and splashed and poured. Vexen glared at him, went unnoticed, and sighed. Typical that of all the angels in heaven, he had to wind up with this one - adolescent, ignorant, obscene, bad tempered and not to mention far too perverted for his own good. And the worst thing, the absolute worst thing, was that when he wasn't being childish, stupid, rude or fussy, Marluxia was actually kind of sort of a little bit_ cute_.

* * *

From my project Broken Wing, in which Marluxia is a guardian angel sent to save Vexen, a suicidal man, from killing himself. With varying success. This can be found on DeviantArt.


	2. 003 World

**003 - World**

World hopping.

It was insane, Vexen thought, as he felt strong fingers tug against the thick fabric of his glove and _bang_, light exploded into his face and the darkness was peeling away for another world to be revealed. Then, with the hot flush of laughter, darkness would envelope them again and they would be running through the snapping jaws of the Heartless that dwelled in the corridors, and _bang_, they'd be a million miles away in another world, gulping a breath of new air before moving on again, to glimpse a new horizon, a new cityscape, a new sunrise unfolding in another macrocosm of the vast, swirling, ever changing universe.  
It was more than insane.

It was _stupid_.

But even more stupid, Vexen had come to realise as month after laborious month would pass in the World that Never Was, was trying to stay sane when one was clearly lacking in the most basic of elements that made one human. He'd tried to be as Even had been, but work had enveloped him with heartlessness, slowly losing the ability to recall the correct technique of social situations as memories of his heart faded. Insanity had climbed into the empty space inside his chest, melted friendships away, driven him to spend sleepless nights in the laboratory, searching, searching, searching, counter-intuitively, for the one thing that would stop him going utterly, utterly mad.

But he'd realised eventually that being mad and thinking that one was still sane was no fun at all. The real fun only started once one recognised that one was completely mad, and began to explore the unique and wonderful benefits of being insane.

So, yes, Vexen thought as they stopped for a kiss, wind whipping their hair, and jumped into the swirling vortex of darkness once again, he was mad. He'd lost his marbles, so to speak. He was a few sandwiches short of a picnic. He had a screw loose, he was around the bend, he was as mad as a hatter, and _yes_, he really was rather enjoying it.

Twenty worlds in, the two of them had to pause, hands on their knees, to gasp for breath, then fall backwards into nondescript bracken and laugh. Vexen hadn't felt so carefree in his life, not even in his other life before he'd lost his mind. Who cared, he thought as his fingers curled all by themselves around a familiar palm. Who the hell gives a toss about whether you're mad. Mad is_ fun_.

Marluxia had helped push the madness out of Vexen, or maybe _into_ Vexen, depending on which way one approached the situation. Not, of course, that he'd ever admit it, but Vexen was secretly glad. He pitied the others, slaving away as the last shreds of their minds slipped away in search of the elusive heart. He was having fun, using the darkness to his full advantage to spring across a continent of planets in an instant. They could frown on him all he liked for being a bit bonkers, but really, in the end he was better off.

Screw all that "no emotions" lark, because Vexen definitely know _smug_ when he felt it.

"So, Vexen," His companion said, and there was a gentle rustle around them as two heads twisted to face each other.

"What is it this time?"

"Tell me where we've been."

Vexen turned back to the stars, and smiled. Hell if he knew. They'd been running too fast to catch enough of each world for characteristics or data or names. But Marluxia would never know. Marluxia never knew anything. Marluxia was a moron.

But Vexen secretly liked that because it made him feel smarter.

Ah, complacency.

He lazily lifted an arm to point out a random star in the sky.

"There." He said. "That's the Pride Lands."

Marluxia nodded, plucking out what was probably a completely different star with his gaze. Vexen moved his finger to rest on another pinprick of light.

"And that," He said all-importantly, "Is the Deep Jungle."

"But we didn't visit the Deep Jungle," Marluxia protested tiredly.

"Yes, we did."

"Did we?"

Vexen sighed, and chose that moment to pick himself up onto one elbow and roll more through practice than talent onto the other man. The closeness in the night was comforting. Warm, even. Marluxia was always warmer. It stood to reason.

Not that Vexen did terribly much reasoning any more, on nights like this.

"You," He said, half accusingly, picking features from the dark with his eyes, "Marluxia," (He liked that name. It was pretentious. Vexen didn't hold much faith to pretentious things, but he liked that thought that every time anybody said Marluxia's name, the poor man would be reminded again just how pretentious he was. And Vexen found this amusing. So he said Marluxia's name a lot.) "Are mad."

Marluxia didn't seem too dissatisfied by this analysis, and reached up with cold fingers to finger his way around Vexen's body.

Vexen had learned to love those touches. As mad as it was. He, a man, enjoying the pleasure of Marluxia, a man. If he'd been Even, he'd not have dreamed of it. But he wasn't Even any more. He was Vexen.

And Vexen was mad.

So Vexen leaned down with a smile, safe in the knowledge that the whole world was his because he was mad, and brushed lips and tongues with Marluxia, who was not just a man but a _mad_man, and that made the smug little feeling all the more self-content.


	3. 005 Taste

**005 - Taste**

_The first taste was blood._

You don't remember how old you were, you were just that sort of age - the age that boys reach where they start throbbing with testosterone and noticing girls.

Except you never did the latter. You don't remember the first dream. What you do remember, very clearly, is lying awake the next morning feeling a different, sticky kind of wet in your pants, with the taste of blood in your mouth and a little nook in your lip where you'd accidentally bitten through the skin in the midst of a restless night.

It was a Sunday, you know that - because you recall being all dressed up for Sunday School to learn more about Jesus and how he Died For Our Sins and Rose From The Dead. You always wanted to ask if that made Him a zombie, but that was blasphemy so you never dared. As you grew older you fitted in the pieces; the dreams became clearer, the urge to just feel what it was like with your own hands grew stronger. But you never really realised that you weren't _normal_. People just didn't talk about That Sort Of Thing, so you never knew. Never knew until you kissed a boy, aged twelve, and realised from the backlash from the boy in question, the classmates, the teachers (it was a miracle that your parents were never involved) that boys didn't like boys in that way, and if they did - well, they kept quiet and pretended to like girls instead.

But you were never terribly tactful, bless your poor soul and your little cotton socks.

You never saw girls like that. Of course, you loved your mother dearly, but aside from being rather useful for bringing up children and doing housework, you'd never even seen a slimmer of attraction in females. What was there to like about their curved, soft bodies, the lumps of fat in inconvenient places, their fluttering eyelashes and shallow beauty? You'd never understood.

_The worst taste was prayer._

It's your darkest memory. The one that really, only you know. The one thing that, if you could, you would erase from your mind. But you can't. It's ingrained as though in stone upon the very core of your being, lurking at the back of your mind, waiting for the perfect moment to spring.  
How many years?

You found the library, you found hear-say from your friends, you found a stash of glossy girls' mags filled with gorgeous men, muscles like the undulations of land beneath deeply tinted skin. You found a pretty little word, one that seemed to make everything make sense in a world of Not Quite Right._ Gay_.

And you found solace in knowing that you weren't the only one, in the scraps of knowledge that slipped through your parents' censorship of the media. You found courage. Courage to tell.

You waited until you were sixteen. Exactly. It seemed sensible enough at the time. Your mother was just coming to say goodnight when you told her. You forget the words now, but you all too well remember her face pale to white, your father's reaction as she hurried to find him, told him in hushed whispers. You'd been feeling good, the birthday warmth of the daytime feeding your nervous little confidence.

Then there were no words at all. They led you, half naked, to the church.

You remember the rain. It drenched you. It masked your tears as your mind smashed into a thousand pieces. The little safety nets of knowledge fell through, useless, like your legs as they collapsed onto the cold, hard stone of the steps outside the towering, locked doors of the church.  
Palms desperately pressed together, it became your hell.

You recited your own version of a prayer you'd hardly thought you'd need to know, and every time you faltered you could feel the glares of the ones you thought truly, honestly loved you. You were numb. In a few minutes, the warmth, the anticipation, the courage, was gone. You couldn't have found words for the pain if you'd tried.

You finished with a messy, hasty conclusion, and glanced uncertainly up. They made you pray again, eyes pressed tightly closed against the rain, until the pain seeped with cold from your toes.

Your parents left you. A few harsh words and a threat became their inheritance, and you ran after the car until your lungs spat fire and the soles of your feet had been shredded by stones and cut glass.

So, nowhere left to belong, you returned to the church and prayed.

No. You _begged_.

You begged for forgiveness, for a cure, to be normal, to be happy, to have never said a word, to never have dreamed, to not be so wrong, to be loved, to be warm, to be different, to be the _same_. And the prayer became a mantra, over and over, until it was the last thought in your mind, and if God was listening He never saw fit to answer.

You tried to return once the dawn had broken but they'd found the glossy magazines and the homoerotic novel you'd found someplace and read a hundred thousand times. There was nothing left for you there. You weren't a son any more. Just a boy. A boy who liked other boys.  
That night with a bag of clothes and a bit of loose change, you begged again. You begged until you thought your heart had melted clean away, until nothing was left in your mouth but the taste of bitter remorse. You tried to repent, tried so hard, screaming at the empty, unyeilding stone of the ancient church. But every time you closed your eyes a man was waiting for you in Hell, gorgeous and wonderful and all you ever wanted, more than the forgivemess of a God you only half believed in, and so you'd open your eyes again, remember what was true, and beg again.

_The sweetest taste was apple pie._

A week later and mostly through sheer necessity, you'd pulled yourself together. It took a few nights of sleeping beneath bus stops but you'd found a man who was willing enough to let you move into a spare room in his block of flats for a modest monthly fee. And every night you still prayed, lips moving until you fell silent and still begged yourself to sleep. You were so miserable that you didn't even dream. You thought you were healing - _hoped_ that you were. You wanted your mother and father back, you wanted your bedroom and all your things, you wanted your pet dog, you wanted security and love. More than God's forgiveness, more than the dreams that in the light of realisation seemed like a plague. You cried a lot, dreading going back to school at the end of the holidays and living out your life like this, no money, no real home, no hope. You'd always dreamed of going to University, in a life so distant, but you'd never afford the fees now. But you felt as though you were healing. You could change. It was just a phase. It didn't have to be for life, your displaced sexuality, and you could return to your parents and be happy again, happy and straight, have a girlfriend, a fiancée, a wife, children, grandchildren... The thought made you shudder, but you tried to be positive about it. Of course that was what you wanted. It was what everybody wanted. That was how it was.

It took three days for your hopes to be complerely and utterly smashed. Shattered. Exploded. A myriad of useless pieces. Gone.

It was a Saturday evening, you remember that. On Monday you'd be back to school. And you weren't expecting the knock at the door but you answered it anyway in the hopes that maybe it was a friend you hadn't seen for nearly a week, or your mother with tears in her eyes with an apology-

It wasn't. What is was was nothing less than a _demon_. Sent by the devil, you thought later, to tempt you to sin. A vision, a hallucination, madness conjured up by your tired, mourning mind.

You noticed several things and each in order. The boy's hair was pink, his face was perfect, he had a gorgeous body just beginning to shed the puppy fat of youth to make way for the finely toned muscle of adulthood. And his trousers were slipping low on his hips, belt worked loose, and revealing a strip of wonderful ochre flesh and the very start of a little fuzz of brown hair that made your gut curl with a sudden flash of heat. Your mind ground, screaming, to a halt, and stopped completely.

"Hi!" He said enthusiastically after thirty seconds of just _staring_. And then you saw the apple pie. Well, smelt it. It was so strong you could actually taste it just by breathing in, sweet and warm and fruity and-

The boy waved in your face, smile no less wide.

"Hullo there?"

You snapped from your daydream of gorgeous boys and apple pie. "Oh. Hi."

The boy laughed and it might just have been your maddened, harassed and admittedly slightly one-track state of your mind, but it sounded like liquid orgasm.

"You're younger than I thought you'd be," He said, peeking past you into your room, and he didn't sound disappointed. "What're you living all by yourself in the box room for?"

Your mouth, without the aid of your brain, managed to form a little 'o' but no sound came out. The boy burbled on, forgetting his question almost as insantly as it was posed.

"I live next door with my mum and dad. We were on holiday. We just got back and thought it'd be a bit rude not to give you a welcome present. I'm Marluxia, by the way. What's your name?"

Silence. You'd forgotten how to talk. Marluxia waved his hand in your face again.

"Anybody in there?"

You quickly remembered your name and summoned up what precious little eloquence you had left.

"Oh, yeah. I'm Vexen."

"Vexen," Marluxia repeated with another smile, nodding. "Can I come in? I have apple pie. Mum's home made."

You stepped aside without thinking and ushered Marluxia in, still a little struck that a boy could be so _beautiful_.

"I was supposed to give this to you," Marluxia said as he looked for a chair. There wasn't one. "But I thought, you're never going to finish all of this on your own. So I brought an extra spoon."

And he laughed again, plonking himself down on what served as your bed - an old, odd-smelling mattress - with the apple pie on his lap and his falling trousers revealing even more than just a tiny line of backside. "You do like pie, right?"

You forced yourself to concentrate enough to speak but you were just lost for words at the sudden appearance of what seemed like your wettest of wet dreams, grinning innocently with a pie on his lap and - you noticed it now - a _flower_ tucked into his hair behind his ear. It seemed too good to be true.

"Y-yeah."

"Kinda spacey, aren't you?" Marluxia giggled, pulling a spoon from his back pocket and digging into the corner of the pie. It steamed.

"Sorry," You said, joining him and trying not to stare.

"Don't apologise," Marluxia replied, spoon halfway up to his open mouth before he remembered his manners and quickly redirected its flightpath. "Oops. First bite's yours, of course."

You wondered how your life had gone from shaky confidence to shattered dreams to a boy spoon feeding you apple pie in your room on your bed, as you tasted an explosion of apple and pastry and crispy sugar coating and cream and a splash of spicy cinnamon on your tongue and dutifully licked the spoon clean.

_The hardest taste was discipline._

Or lack thereof; Marluxia was simply irresistible. He was too young, you told yourself - he was only fourteen, after all (Not fourteen! _Nearly fifteen!_) and you were sixteen, but... that really didn't help. He just seemed to bound with youthful exuberance, approached every tiny little thing with disproportionate overenthusiasm, and was naturally tactile in a million innocent ways that set your imagination reeling. He was simply adorable. Adorable_ and_ sexy.

It took physical effort to stop your hands wandering when he'd drape himself affectionately over you. It was like he was deliberately _taunting_ you, knowing that would couldn't wouldn't shouldn't touch. But that might have been better. The worst thing was that he was oblivious. He chatted about past girlfriends until you thought you'd burst or turn around and stop up his mouth with a furious, desperate kiss. He'd laugh that he was the perverted one when it was_ you_ who dreamed of his legs spread wide for you, his body hot and wet with sweat, his hips parted just so into a perfect, delerious moan. He wandered around half naked "for the girls", sometimes turned up at your place in nothing but a towel after a shower because he "couldn't be bothered", and slowly seemed to be driving you torturously and sickeningly mad. You wished he'd pick up the pieces and act appropriately - meaning _not_ flaunt his gorgeous body in front of a miserable, closeted gay man, or push the limits of "just" friendship when it should have been so goddamn obvious that you wanted more. But... you knew that you'd miss his hugs, his easy-going personality and his inadvertant eye-candy.

So you slowly learned to keep your sick fantasies to yourself, consider yourself lucky that you'd got Marluxia as a friend at all, and try your very hardest inot/i to stare every time he wasn't wearing enough clothing, grope when an available body part was just in the perfect place, or kiss when Marluxia was snoring softly on your bed at the end of one of a hundred hysterical sleepovers.

But _damn_, it was hard.

Because you wanted Marluxia so badly it hurt, more than you wanted forgiveness of a God you had long since forsaken, or parents that you desperately pretended you still loved.

_The best taste is Marluxia._

This is the memory you know you'll remember _forever_ simply because you'd never left yourself forget. Even when you're an old man - if you even live that long with a crazy boyfriend seemly hell bent on bringing forth your collective untimely demise in the most compromising position possible - you know you'll recall this moment and still your wizened, thin lips will curve into a quirky, twisted smile.

You'd made a pillow fort, as one does. It was summer, the beginning of the holidays and "_six weeks of sleepover oh my god oh my god oh my god yay!_" and Marluxia came around straight after school and you'd made a pillow fort with your bedding and his bedding and his mum's bedding and the spare stuff in the cupboard. It was a pretty impressive sight to behold, if you said so yourself.

So the two of you had squeezed inside it, side by side, really too close but you figured that if nobody called you up on it, that was okay, and you were doodling random crap on a notepad because technology was far away next door in Marluxia's family apartment and laughing at what looked suspiciously like a penis at two o'clock in the morning after one too many bottles of coke.

Then, looking at the is-it-isn't-it-no-really-it-does-look-like-a penis, Marluxia's hand paused and so did his tinkling laugher. He looked at you.

"Hey, Vexen?"

You sort of sensed the change of the mood in the tiny little atmosphere of the fort, and your smile faded a bit as you turned to face your best friend.

"Yeah?"

"Are you gay?"

You froze.

You froze and suddenly thought _Oh my God, he's realised, oh my God, he knows and he's going to hate me because I- and he's- and then- and- and-_

Marluxia smiled a little and turned back to the seriously-that-is-so-obviously-a penis and drew a rather crude little dotted line.

"Because," He said carefully, like for once he was actually thinking about what he was saying, "I think I am."

_Gay_, you thought, and you sort of forgot to register the rest.

Marluxia looked at you again. He looked about as confident as you'd ever felt in your very best moments of life, and for Marluxia that wasn't very.

"I mean, I keep wanting to kiss you," He said and you ended up staring. You think your mouth was hanging open, but you're not sure. "And, well..." He reached out for what would have been your hand in normal circumstances but due to the rather awkward position you were in was actually your foot. "You stare at me a lot. I don't normally think anything of that because a lot of people stare at me, my mum says it's because I'm completely bonkers and she's probably right, but you don't stare at me like them, you sort of- I mean, it's a nice sort of staring. I like it. Vexen?"

You were paralysed. You just couldn't seem to move a muscle. Your brain had gone into a total melt down.

Marluxia started laughing, apparently thinking nothing of just doubting his sexuality in front of his best friend. "Hey, Vexen? Hey, you haven't gone this spacey in_ ages_..."

You just about managed to swallow thickly and turn your head a little to look away.

And then he kissed your cheek. Mwah.

"Vex~en...?"

You twisted back, the air suddenly thick as treacle, slow motion, practically _backwards_, and that was when you first tasted Marluxia.

Your lips crashed together with a surprised little _Mmph!_, and then without even taking a moment to think, your hands had slid down his back, pulling him onto you by his buttocks, and he moaned into you, held you close, grinned like the Cheshire Cat beneath the crumpled, collapsed pillow fort and that was where you stayed until dawn cracked a smile and Marluxia returned home with a crushing hug and another affectionate little _mwah_.

He's changed a lot since then - you both have. You're more cynical, he's more arrogant. You couldn't either claim to be innocent by any stretch of the imagination, and you know for a fact that you drive quite a few people utterly mad the way you act around each other - but, as Marluxia puts it, who the fuck cares? It's love. There's no _way_ that something that tastes this good could ever be wrong.

* * *

This is a prequel of sorts to my fanfiction Stereotypes and Misconceptions, set a few years before the plot of S&M.


	4. 007 Belief

**007 - Belief**

Marluxia had honestly believed that it would last forever.  
In fact, it wasn't even a belief. That implied considering other options to be false. But it hadn't even occurred to him that things would be any different to how he expected them to be. He'd just assumed that the two of them would grow old together just like this. Not... not this.

"Nobodies don't age," Zexion says to the cold, lifeless room as though he can explain away the grief that anybody feels at the loss of a dear friend. "But with the return of the heart, the internal body does have a tendency to catch up, of sorts."

Marluxia looks blankly into the coffin, the man inside lying still and peaceful amongst white satin sheets and cherry blossoms.

He feels stupid. Ignorant. Heartless. The two of them, hearts returned, had lived on the edge. He'd thought nothing of it. Assumed that it would simply last forever.

"It isn't surprising, really," Zexion continues blandly. "The considerable physical trauma of his brush with darkness... and a reckless lifestyle."

Marluxia's stomach curls unpleasantly and he has to close his eyes for a moment. Zexion turns away a little to allow him some privacy. It's painful for them all, Marluxia knows. But still they can't seem to be seen loosing face in front of each other.

"How old was he?"

Curious - he'd never thought about age. The man - his lover - had just seemed so timeless. But now that Marluxia thinks about it...

Zexion counts on his fingers.

"He was forty-six when we became nobodies..."

"It never showed."

Zexion shrugs.

"He didn't like to think about it. He knew... he knew he wasn't going to last long. Eleven years in the darkness, that makes fifty-seven. And four in the light - sixty-one years."

Marluxia turns back. Sixty-one, he thinks. He's barely even thirty. It seems surreal. The man always seemed sort of old, but never had he expected him to be _that _old.

Four years.

"We told him that his body would probably give out," Zexion continues quietly, his voice faraway. "But he said that a few years of emotions was better than an eternity of heartlessness."

"Shut up," Marluxia says, blinking away tears. Zexion's complicated vocabulary and scientific explanations just remind him of the dead man. He doesn't want a reason. He wants his lover back.

"He did it for you."

Marluxia closes his eyes and thinks about the morning he woke up to find his companion slightly cooler than usual one idle morning, a little stiff and pale, eyes closed as though in thought and lips parted just a little where his very last breath had just slipped away.

"He was stupid."

Zexion smiles tightly.

"He was in love."

Marluxia shoos the diminutive man from the room so that he can have some time alone. How could he be so stupid? So unobservant? How did he not notice his other growing old and frail? He'd just messed around with that tall, pale, gorgeous body like it was his own, like it was fit enough to withstand hours of running wild around streets and forests and across worlds, passionate trysts in bed (and other places) every other night...

Marluxia had truly been convinced that Vexen would just always be there. It was just going to be them, together, forever.

Physical trauma.

Reckless lifestyle.

Sixty-one years.

Marluxia leans over the coffin until tears drip down his cheeks and splash against the smart white laboratory suit and signature purple Ascot pulled from the posterity box and straightened out for the funeral. He lays a gentle kiss to Vexen's forehead, and lowers the lid.


	5. 009 Order

**009 - Order**

_Things didn't happen in the order they should've with them. Normally it was liking, then loving, then physical affection. But after that first fated kiss, things had crashed out of control, until Even was left with a box of blue hair dye, a stolen jacket, and a broken heart._

What was it about Xehanort, Even asked himself as he nursed a tender stomach in the shower and dreading gym tomorrow where it would be too hot to cover up the purpling bruise with a vest, that made his normally logical mind simply forget law and order and come running into situations from which, once unleashed, there would be no turning back?

Of course, his brain that knew eighty-six decimal places of pi, could hold an entire conversation in Klingon and could recite nearly all of the periodic table, had no answer to this particular quandary.

Even shifted his lanky body from the shower, dragged a towel around himself, and stood shivering for a moment on the bathmat.

Right.

A few minutes later he had dashed to his room and returned with a little blue box. He prised it open and pulled out a bottle, quickly skimming through the instructions. He'd never done anything like this before but, he supposed, it was a learning experience. And it was for Norty, so it was worth it.

Norty.

Oh, God, Norty. Oh, God, when had Even fallen horribly and hopelessly in love with his best friend? It would have been a simple response to say when the _thing_ started, but Even was sure that it had stemmed back further than that. Xehanort had not been his friend forever; before they realised how similar (and lonely) they both were, he'd hung around with the "cool" group and more or less been completely used for his money and spacious house. He was a little less naive now. But that was still quite a bit. But friends they had become, and thinking back to times when they'd lain just a little bit closer than "just" friends would at sleepovers, hugged just a bit longer than "just" friends...

... But that was a stupid thought because it either meant that Norty liked Even back (which was obviously false) or that Even had been taking advantage of Norty (which was unpleasant to imagine).

So Even tried not to think at all (that never worked) as he carefully covered all surfaces with paper towels, pulled on the cheap plastic gloves, and began to apply soft, blue goo to his hair until his entire head was covered. Waiting for it to set, he studied himself in the mirror.

Unfortunately, he still looked like Even. He frowned and glanced away.

Twenty minutes later he washed out the residue of the hair dye and was left with a curious apparition that wasn't quite Even but definitely not Isa. Even sighed, brushing his fingertips across the mirror, and turned to shrug on the black under-shirt that he'd bought that afternoon, spraying it with a good deal of the aftershave that matched Isa's, then grabbing the stolen jacket and hauling it onto his shoulders.

It was thick, heavy and suffocating. Even felt like his fragile bone structure would simply crumple beneath the weight of trying so desperately to pretend that he was somebody else. Somebody that Norty wanted. Somebody better than Even, better than a tightly drawn face, sunken eyes, lifeless hair, a thin, elongated body marred with blotches and scars as some kind of twisted reminder of how insufferable Even truly was.

Even sat against the bath and cried until his tear ducts cleared and his heart gave out.

Then he stood, wrapped himself in a new persona that both made him and broke him, and made his way downstairs and out into the pouring rain.

* * *

A drabble based on my Even/Xehanort fanfiction, pretending, where Even pretends to be Isa for Xehanort. Thanks to SushiBee for the first paragraph! X3


	6. 011 Paper

**011 - Paper**

Too thin, you're thinking. Don't try to fool me; I can tell.

Too thin, too pale, too old, too lanky, too sunken, too hollow, too disagreeable, too eccentric... there's no end to the list of the things that perhaps you'd stand in moderation or even find attractive, but there's too much. Too much wrong with me to ever love.

I was fooled before, you know. That's why I don't like hospitals. Don't like being touched. Don't eat. Don't sleep. Don't smile.

I'm not going to be fooled again. Do you hear me? Do you understand the words passing through my lips? Or is my vocabulary too complex, are my scientific analogies too advanced, do I have to speak in monosyllables to get the point across?

This is the most of me that you've ever seen. It's horrible; don't try to sugar coat the issue because there's nothing left to sugar coat. My body is falling apart on my command and you know what? There's nothing you can do about it. You can cook whatever you like with your magic hands but that won't stop me pushing food around the plate without ever picking it up, and it won't stop me staggering to the bathroom to throw up in the middle of the night. You're a fool. An idiot. A moron. A hopeless case.

Stop looking at me.

Look away. Go on. I _dare_ you. I dare you, admit the truth. You don't have to be kind. I withstood kindness once; it broke me. I don't want your sympathy, your naïve optimism. I want honesty. _Look away_.

Be blunt. Be brutal. I'm ugly, aren't I? Hideous. I look like a ghost. I'm haunting you. I can see it in your eyes every time we argue and you recede a little further into fake smiles and hiding in the kitchen cooking food we both know is destined only for the bin.

You don't have to stay here.

You know that, right? Nothing's keeping you here. Who the _fuck_ cares what happens to me? If you leave I'll only curl up on the sofa until the nurse arrives and takes me back to hospital and then I'll start running again, keep running, because I've gone completely and utterly mad. There's nothing even left of me some nights.

You're making things worse. You're making everything worse.

_Just go away_.

And you look like you've seen something die and it's probably me, and you reach out to brush your fingers across my papery skin, and then your smile breaks my heart all over again as you lean forwards onto your tiptoes and press your lips to mine, close your baby blue eyes and gently lower me down onto the bed that was always made for two.

* * *

Too thin, I'm thinking. And I'm so convinced that I can't even believe that you'd disagree.

How could you find a pale, ageing, anorexic, sunken, hollow ghost of a man attractive? How could you catch me when I'm at my weakest, half dressed and shattered and look at me as though you honestly _love_ me?

I was fooled before, you know. That's why I'm scared to admit that you're not as bad as I always pretend. That's why I can't understand why you'd do all these things for me even though sometimes it feels painfully obvious that it's hurting you almost as much as it's hurting me.

I swore I'd never be fooled again, but you've realised now that I _was_. I fooled myself into laying every inch of the blame on myself, digging out every tiny failing on my part until nothing was left but empty craters. I've fooled myself into thinking that the reason why she didn't love me was because _nobody_ could love me, because I was too old, too ugly, too disagreeable, too uptight. I'm a fool. An idiot. A moron. A hopeless case.

Look at me.

_Please_. Don't avert your eyes from what's left of my body after I wrecked it once and twice and forever. Prove to me that I'm not as awful as I think I am, that even if I'm broken now it's nothing that someone special can't fix. I _want_ your sympathy, your naïve optimism. I want little white lies that blur the truth and break down my defences until love can pass both ways. _Look at me_.

Be truthful. Be kind. I'm... I'm sort of elegant, aren't I? There's something elfin about my body if you look past the scars and blotches and clearly visible bones. I can see it in your eyes every time we both forget who we are for a moment and laugh on the couch at the terrible effects of some stupid horror movie.

You have to stay here.

You know that, right? That if you leave I'll break into a thousand pieces and nothing will ever bring me back. You know that if you stay then maybe one day I'll open up to you a little and give you something in return for six weeks in hell, maybe I'll offer you a fleeting smile, the briefest of human touches, and everything will be worth it. I think that perhaps you even dream that there'll be something made of us some nights.

You're making things better. You're making everything better.

_Just don't go away_.

And you look like you've seen something die and it's probably me, and you reach out to brush your fingers across my papery skin, and then your smile breaks my heart all over again as you lean forwards onto your tiptoes and press your lips to mine, close your baby blue eyes and gently lower me down onto the bed that was _always_ made for two.

* * *

Based on my and Sushibee's RP, where Vexen and Marluxia are teachers, and Vexen is diagnosed with anorexia after collapsing at school. Marluxia is sent to look after him for a six week period, and awkward ensues.


	7. 013 Harmony

**013 - Harmony**

"I didn't know you could play."

Marluxia had long since filled his quote of hearts for this mission, but his incompetent companion had, last he'd checked, been barely halfway through. The moron - Marluxia truthfully hated him, more than any other member of the Organisation. He simply didn't seem to have the ability to take anything seriously, and he messed around like he still had a heart. It was a fool's task, utterly pointless. Marluxia has no time for idiots like him.

The piano, in the corner of some dusty storeroom, looked like it hadn't been used for years. Dust covered it like a thick winter fur, and when Marluxia prised open the lid it groaned in protest at the movement. But the ivory keys shined like new as though they'd been waiting all these years for somebody to come and bring them to life.

Marluxia tested a note with a soft hum of his own. It still tuned perfectly. So he glanced surreptitiously around then brushed the worst of the dust from the mothbitten stool, and took a seat. His fingers rested on the finely crafted keys for a moment until, seemingly of its own accord, a key fell and filled the room with a single, perfect note. Marluxia recalled a chord with his left hand, and it resonated like liquid gold. Music blossomed from the keys, the movements returning to the nobody like old friends. He recalled a childhood favourite of his, lost himself to memories as the keys danced with a life of their own.

Marluxia was not a sentimental man; at least, he tried not to be. The past was the past - the weak being his somebody had been was not the empowered warrior and assassin he was now, and such emotional baggage would only weigh him down.

But still the music played, sonorous and perfect and with a precision that Marluxia had always applied to his work.

Number nine was called the Melodious Nocturne for a reason - he was drawn like a fish to water to musical notes. Marluxia was hardly surprised when he popped in a few minutes later, hanging nervously in the doorway.

"My mother taught me," The Assassin said, remembering his childhood in the sprawling countryside villa with servants to dote upon him and pretty ladies to coo his name. A world away from that he was now, slave to an imbecile who everyone could see was insane.

He sighed a little to himself, laying the notes to rest. He'd always thought to leave, but what was the point with no heart, no companion? Of course, such weak thoughts were never tolerated, but still in the darkest nights a few of them managed to slip through the net of Marluxia's projected persona.

"Don't stop," Demyx murmured, scurrying over to loom behind Marluxia's shoulder. "That sounded pretty."

Marluxia scoffed.

"I don't do pretty."

"What about your flowers?" Demyx blindly pressed, gathering up courage to sit beside Marluxia.

"Elegant," The Assassin clipped smoothly. "Perfect. Sublime. Gorgeous, even. But not _pretty_."

Demyx didn't seem to understand, but he thought better of asking, turning instead to the grand piano.

"'S a good one this,"

"Yes," Marluxia replied, running his gloved fingers across the dusty top of the piano to reveal rich, varnished mahogany. "Fine workmanship."

"Know any duets?"

"No."

"Kay."

Demyx rolled a low, melancholy chord.

"You know the keys, right?"

"Of course."

"Play a C."

Marluxia complied, softly pressing the right note. Demyx played another, calling out notes as he trilled chord after chord. A bar or two in, Marluxia recognised the tune.

"This is Pachelbel's Canon."

Demyx grinned, his own tinkering music still gracing the air.

"Yep."

Marluxia repeated the melody and Demyx effortlessly harmonised with the bass. Somehow, deep in his hollow core, Marluxia could have sworn that the beautiful music provoked some kind of emotion inside him. Was this why Demyx loved to play so much? Was his sitar some kind of substitute for a heart? Did that mean that Marluxia's gardens, Vexen's experiments, even Luxord's endless rounds of cards, were the same?

A curious thought. Marluxia shuffled it away for later, and let his mind wander with the ivory notes flowering from his fingertips.

"I always wanted to play with someone," Demyx suddenly said as his fingers rose and intertwined with Marluxia's for the briefest of moments. "I even dragged a piano to the World that Never Was. But nobody was ever interested."

Marluxia allowed himself to glance momentarily at Demyx, so serene with his mind trapped by the melodious music. So different to the clumsy, useless fool that he was so used to. His lips nearly formed a word, but then the music demanded his full attention and he returned to his dancing fingers.

"You know," Demyx said thoughtfully twelve and a half bars and several variations later, "I always thought you were so high and mighty. I guess I was wrong."

The comment struck Marluxia. He'd just been thinking the exact same thing...

"Perish the thought of actually lowering myself to the level of you morons."

Demyx laughed, rolling one last chord and holding the note until it faded and died into the night.

"Don't you give me that."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Demyx idly played a tune that interrupted Marluxia's hands.

"Trust me, I know better than anybody. Music always brings out the true personality of a person."

Then he laughed and clapped his hands on his knees.

"Well. I'd better get going. Still got... heh. Twenty four more hearts to collect. Wish me luck!"

He'd blustered away before Marluxia thought to brush his fingers against the piano, give the keys one last goodbye, and shut the lid. But he didn't forget, even if it took him twenty minutes to find the piano in some obscure room back at home, picked out especially for its perfect acoustics, and three more months for him to once again not be alone.

But then again, duets always harmonised better.


	8. 015 Potato

**015 - Potato**

_October, 1848_

The third day of rain was here, and that would be a good thing if not for the devastating blight that it spread. This was the fourth year, now. It seemed like it would never end. Last year, they'd been lucky, but the infestation was back again and with it came famine, disease and death.

Lexaeus had woken at the murky sunrise, pulled on his tattered breeches and set out to review the damage to his fields. Now would, in better times, be the first day of harvest. Everyone would be out of the fields with their spading forks, digging up juicy potatoes for selling at the market. But that was before the blight.

Lexaeus walked at random amongst the plants; some of them looked to be healthy, others had collapsed completely, leaving nothing but weedy stalks and shrivelled leaves in their wake. He plucked one from the ground. The potatoes had been ruined, insides shrunken and rotting. There was nothing to be done. These were not fit even for the pigs.

Most of the village population was gone already; they'd either succumbed to starvation or illness, or tried their luck with the coffin ships, hoping to make a new life in the Americas. Lexaeus suppressed a shiver at the thought. This was his home, here in Ireland, and he'd never leave, no matter how bad things would get. He'd just have to scrape together enough money to get food for himself and his companion, and pay the taxes until the blight was over.

Perhaps there'd be a few healthy potatoes here, unaffected by the disease. He'd have to check every one, split every rotting plant for anything edible.

At least if he split them even the authorities would recognise that the unspoiled potatoes wouldn't keep for the journey to England, so maybe he'd be allowed to keep them. The last unaffected crop, bar a few that he'd thieved for himself and his last remaining companion, had all been shipped across for, apparently, more important people.

Lexaeus suspected that the net through which aid was supposed to flow was probably clogged with priests and bishops, fat of their own greed, considering themselves higher than the people owing to their so called devotion to God. But he'd never dare to say that out loud. Such thoughts were blasphemous, could get you sent to the place nobody really talked about, the place that people who went there never returned from. And Lexaeus, like any rational man, was a devout Catholic and a good, God-fearing one, but he couldn't help the tiny thought in the back of his mind that while yes, of course, the Almighty Lord had sent the blight, but it was not God who was responsible for the deaths of so many good Irish men and women. It was the government, refusing them aid, forcing their rent ever higher, cutting their meagre strips of land ever smaller.

Lexaeus levered out another plant and tested the potatoes. Rotten and corky, bitter to the taste. He moved on.

* * *

This is (supposed to be) set in the Great Irish Famine, where more than a million Irish people died of starvation and another million emigrated to America. I don't know much about it, so excuse the historical inaccuracies, and thanks to Sciolto for help.


	9. 017 Lightning

**017 - Lightning**

Lightning never strikes in the same place twice.

Well, _that_ wasn't true, because Larxene was well practised in the art of adding insult to injury, sending hot, fiery pain coursing again and again through the exact same spot to maximise the torture.

And there were some places that Larxene liked to strike quite frequently indeed.

Every jealous man and woman had their own name for Larxene's less than faithful nature - she just liked to consider herself a woman of opportunity. Which was why it was curious that she'd never thought to try _this_ before.

Strange, she thought, that she'd ever derive such pleasure from this little witch, but the warm glow of satisfaction was pleasure nonetheless and she was not going to complain.

Naminé was asleep. Naminé had been asleep for some time, the poor tired little poppet. She lay, loose-limbed, in amongst Larxene's beddings, her petite chest filled with the steady pulse of life. Even if there was no heart to flutter in her core, she still breathed. How _curious_.

If Larxene had had a heart of her own, she may have felt sympathetic towards this poor, broken little creature, so pale and innocent and virtuous. But Larxene knew full well that it was that that purity was only skin deep. Who didn't know about Marluxia's favourite pastime of keeping the prisoner in check that left her flushed and bruised and broken in a forgotten corner somewhere?

Larxene had seen Vexen find her, once. She'd been slinking in shadows, and when the first whisper of a portal appeared by the wall she thought it would be Marluxia back for more fun and games, but instead it was the elongated scientist that slipped through. He'd glanced furtively around, missed Larxene's body pressed against the darkest wall, and swept over to the girl, levering her naked body into his arms. At first Larxene thought that he was an opportunist too, choosing to take Naminé in the moment when nobody was looking, but the kiss he laid to her forehead was not one of malice or ill-placed lust. It was a comforting kiss, a kiss that made her eyes flutter open and her arms loop around his neck. He unzipped his coat, wrapped her up inside even when her blood spilled onto his smart white shirt underneath.

And she'd smiled. Larxene had never seen Naminé smile before, and it was the smile of not a witch but an _angel_, and even after Vexen had slipped through another turbulent corridor, the smile was burned onto her mind like lightning's after image, so bright that her eyes still thought it was there.

She'd waited in the darkness another time after Marluxia was done playing, and this time Naminé was strong enough to stand, shuffle under Vexen's heavy coat for another trip through the portals. The smile was there again, a grateful and warm little smile, and two weeks of slinking later Larxene realised that she was _obsessed_. She wanted that smile for her own, no matter the cost. She wanted Namin to look at her like she looked at Vexen, relax in the safety of a nobody who wouldn't take advantage of her perfect, young body or her perfect, innocent mind.

She gave Naminé crayons. The finest quality. A dozen of them, outlined in a neat cardboard box with gold lining. Larxene didn't catch the symbolism until after she was carrying them home in a paper bag, but secretly she sort of liked it. But the witch didn't smile at the gift. She seemed pleased, and nodded a forced thank you, but she didn't smile.

Larxene offered her release from the listlessness of the castle, but Naminé didn't smile. She mumbled an apology about having to stay for Marluxia, and seemed to recede further into melancholiness.

Larxene took Naminé anyway. Out into the vast fields of the World Between Worlds; she opened a portal and thought it too forward to offer to share a coat. But she did, in the shifting Darkness, reach out a little to brush her gloved fingertips against Naminé's hand. It instantly snapped up to her chest, away from an uncomfortably grasp. Larxene took her to Paris, showed her the finest art galleries, bought her delicious, sugary cuisine. And Naminé seemed content, but she didn't smile. She only ever smiled at Vexen when he came to save her from bleeding alone on a cold marble floor, and no matter how long she stared at the lifeless body in the corner Larxene could never bring herself to take Naminé away first.

One night, she followed the two of them to Vexen's quarters. He even had a bath waiting, and hiding in the rafters Larxene could feel the damp warmth envelope her. He stripped her down from whatever clothes were left clinging to her skin, and, with sleeves rolled up, gently lowered her into the bath. She curled up with her knees to her chin, the warm water lapping around her elbows and breasts as she watched Vexen arrange potions and bandages out on the counter.

"He used vines today, didn't he."

Naminé swallowed thickly and nodded. Vexen gave him a look of understanding that momentarily perplexed Larxene.

"Just relax,"

Naminé let her body slide into the water, leaning forwards to let Vexen gently wipe down her shoulders and back, then her thin, pale arms. One by one her legs were lifted out of the water, and Larxene saw lacerations speckling her skin. Then, looking Naminé straight in the eye, Vexen reached down into the water and out of Larxene's sight. Moments later Naminé let out a tiny whimper, and pressed her face to the crook of Vexen's neck.

"That hurts..."

His right hand tangled, ever so gently, in her hair.

"I know."

And then she seemed to relax, and Vexen pulled his hand from the water. Blood. The sponge, Larxene saw with a horror that twisted her gut, was covered with blood.

"Thank you," Naminé whispered as he washed himself down and pulled her out of the water.

"Can you stand?"

"I think so."

He towelled her down, leaving the gentlest kisses on her stomach. Then he pulled the bandages from the worktop and carefully patched Naminé up. Larxene had never seen Vexen show such care to another sentient being before. Why would he care so much about Naminé?

Larxene followed like a fly on the wall to Vexen's bedroom to watch him tuck Naminé up in bed, dressed in one of his t shirts that hung so loosely off her tiny body.

"Get some sleep."

"Y-yeah."

He brushed her hair from her eyes and softly kissed her forehead again. In the moment that his body was in reach, she lifted her arms from the sheets and hugged him close. Then she spoke so quietly that Larxene barely caught the words.

"He punishes you for this, doesn't he."

Vexen took his time in replying.

"He was hurting me before you were even a thought in the air."

Larxene saw, even in the half darkness, the tendons in Naminé's hands clench a little.

"Don't let him hurt you too much."

Vexen let out the breath of a sigh and pulled away.

"I don't have the authority to stop him any more."

"Don't leave me here,"

Naminé was pleading, Larxene realised dully. She was scared. Scared of what, the dark? Marluxia chancing to slip into this very room and finding her here?

"I have work to do."

"_Please_,"

Vexen brushed his thumb across Naminé's cheek.

"You'll be fine."

Naminé shuffled deeper under the blankets.

"What if he comes for you?"

"Then so be it."

"He'll hurt you..."

"I'll live."

Vexen picked his coat from the side and swept away. Larxene watched Naminé weep for a long time.

So Larxene visited Naminé in her cold, white room the next afternoon, and saw that she was wearing a long dress this time, and leaned against the table to watch her draw. But here Naminé seemed stiff and intimidated. Larxene disliked it. Why wouldn't Nami smile at her like she smiled at Vexen? Why was that one beautiful little upwards twitch of muscles so elusive?

"You okay?"

"Y-yeah..."

Larxene shuffled through Naminé's drawings, a little pleased to note that she was using the gifted crayons. She came across one of Vexen, and stopped. Unlike the others, sketchy figures holding hands or relaxing on beaches, this one was a violent, horrific child's scrawl. The man, unmistakable for the long streaks of blonde hair and two bright green dots for eyes, was lying crumpled against a wall, naked. Here were the salmon lines for his arms and legs. There was the frenzied scrawl of red, red blood.

Naminé suddenly snatched the page away, eyes flickering with horror.

"Don't look at that!"

She dropped the paper face down on the floor and stared at it for a while, then clenched her fists and continued to draw. But Larxene had memorised every mark.

"You draw the future, right?"

"I can't help it," Naminé insisted, helplessly doodling. "Just... ignore that one. Don't think about it. Don't ask me questions."

"He saves you, doesn't he," Larxene found herself intoning. Naminé stared at her with a mixture of shock and terror.

"H-how do you-"

"I've seen him. He carries you away every time Marluxia ravages your body."

Naminé recoiled from Larxene's blunt wording and receded into herself a little.

"It's because of me," She whispered, gesturing to the down turned page. "It's because of me that he hurts Vexen."

Larxene reached down and picked up the gruesome picture. There wasn't enough detail to see where this broken Vexen would lie, framed only in black streaks of darkness; then again in this place of a million times over replicated corridors even the most detailed art might tell them nothing.

"Why?" She asked. "Why does he help you?"

Naminé sniffed a little and clutched at her knees, silky fabric of her dress cascading from her bones.

"He knows what it's like," She admitted. "I'm not the only one that _he_ likes to assert his authority over in... like that."

Larxene couldn't imagine someone as stubborn as Vexen ever standing for something like that, but seeing his saddened look every time he held Naminé close to his body, she realised that he, too, was bearing the weight of pain and humiliation from Marluxia's callous hands.

"... Oh."

"P-please don't hurt me," Naminé added suddenly. Larxene started a little.

"Why would I hurt you?"

"Well, you're in with him..."

"He's just my friend," Larxene said, although seeing what that man seemed to be fully capable of doing to two innocent nobodies, she wasn't sure if she even wanted to class him as that.

Naminé shuffled uncomfortably, finally relinquishing her grasp on her knees.

"You won't tell him, will you? That I told you..."

"Of course not," Larxene promised, unsure why she'd ever vow to something so petty and useless. Lightning didn't make promises, did it? Lightning was truly heartless, indiscriminate where its lethal touch fell.

Larxene wasn't so sure.

"I try to tell Vexen to leave me," Naminé continued, and Larxene recognised the burning desire to come clear even if it would be detrimental to the problem. "But he won't listen. I've seen some of the scars, and he still won't listen to me."

She traced a line across her chest, then another and a third.

"He's covered in them. From _his_ vines."

Naminé's fleeting smiles flickered in Larxene's mind, and Vexen's gentle touches even knowing the punishments that would undoubtedly follow.

"I'll help you."

So here, a few nights later, Naminé lay in Larxene's bed, freshly cleaned and bandaged, sleeping the sleep of the exhausted, and there on her lips was that tiny, tiny upwards curve of the little smile from which Larxene pulled a pleasure that was not sexual or sadistic, but truthfully whole.

Because sometimes, sometimes, when circumstances are right, lightning strikes not down but _up_.


	10. 019 Cuddling

**019 - Cuddling**

It had been six days since the Pepto Bismol pink of Marluxia's hair began to fade. Vexen was beginning to feel terrible.

This was a different sort of terrible to the ill, weak-stomached, lethargic terrible he was used to. It was also different to his own peculiar brand of emotional terrible, which tended to centre around himself being a failure at all aspects of life and love. So this was the _third_ kind of terrible that he was beginning to suffer, and all of this terrible was sitting on his shoulders like a horrible, heavy weight the altitude of which Vexen's weak bones could not sustain.

This morning, it appeared that Marluxia had decided to cook the raspberry pancakes that meant he was apologising for something that he didn't know that Vexen had known that he'd done. But how could Vexen tell him that all the times he'd supposedly been asleep he'd actually been conscious to feel the press of Marluxia's lips to his forehead, to hear the confession that became a mantra, over and over every night while Marluxia thought that Vexen slept soundly and blissfully unaware?

And Vexen could _see _Marluxia cracking, plain as could be, mouth alone while he smiled now, his eyes distant and sad. Every time he laughed it was forced, and every time he spoke it was like he was desperately trying to forget that he was Marluxia and Vexen was Vexen, and the tension between them was more likely than not going to break them both.

Vexen ignored the fruity, bready smell emanating from the kitchen, and headed for the bathroom, grabbing a change of clothes on his way there. Inside the tiled room, he stripped down and happened to glance at himself in the mirror. The scars on his skeletal body nearly made him smile, remembering all the conversations - all of Marluxia's injuries brought about by his own stupidity, and Vexen's through misfortune. Twelve stitches from the bared wires of a fence. Seventeen failing with a sewing machine.

Three point one four one five nine two six five three five...

Vexen sighed to himself, and wished that by some obscene coincidence his telephone number could be the same as the first eleven decimal places of pi because then he'd actually remember it, and pulled on his clothes. With nothing left to do, he dragged himself to the kitchen where Marluxia was working.

"Hey."

"Good morning."

Marluxia tried his best at a smile, but it was a broken one, and Vexen felt a pang of _terrible_ crack through his stomach. God damn it, what was he supposed to do? He tried to make things easy for Marluxia, but he was naturally taciturn and capricious in his personality, and too many times he snapped automatically at Marluxia without thinking and was too proud to apologise, and the terrible would return to stab him again. But...

But Marluxia _loved_ him.

Nobody loved _Vexen_. It was preposterous, laughable, but Vexen knew well enough that Marluxia wouldn't cry and whisper those three words to an apparently asleep Vexen if it wasn't true.

"How are you?"

Marluxia's smile twisted as he set two plates of pancakes down on the table.

"I'm fine."

Vexen looked at him with his tired expression and muddy-pink hair, movements almost lucid in their autonomy, and didn't believe a word of that.

"No, you're not."

Marluxia's head snapped up from the pancakes, but he was quick to busy his hands again.

"You're not," Vexen continued. "You're not. You're perpetually miserable nowadays. If I'm that hard to live with, then why don't you just go home?"

Marluxia's hands froze, the syrup bottle pooling its contents over the pancakes until they were drowned in sticky sauce, and then some. But he seemed to be stuck that way. Vexen realised, mostly from very personal experience, that that was a sure sign of a broken heart.

The terrible twisted and writhed inside him like a beast, and suddenly he realised that he couldn't keep doing what had always been his initial response to pain, and that was run.

"I know how you feel about me," He said, trying to sound offhand and failing. Marluxia gently tipped the bottle up to stop the perpetual flow of golden syrup, and said nothing. "I've known for a while."

Shaking, Marluxia set the syrup down, idly wiping one finger up the glass side to catch the spilled drip. He licked the finger, almost thoughtful in his manner, and then let out a shuddering sigh.

"I should go," He said eventually. "I should leave. It'll be easier for both of us."

Vexen imagined silence in the apartment, no food and no sleep and nothing to do but read until his body gave out. He imagined falling from the couch, television still playing some erudite wildlife documentary, in a dead faint from which he wouldn't wake up. He knew that he was walking on thin ice, always knew. He was alive, yes, but barely - it would take just days for him to collapse if nobody made sure he fed himself, and perhaps another week for his heart to give out completely.

"If you leave," He said, "I will die."

It might have been an exaggeration but it worked to whatever means Vexen didn't anticipate. Marluxia's hands were at his mouth in an instant, stumbling backwards until his back hit the cooker. He hissed a little.

"I've made everything worse."

Vexen made sense of the situation enough to walk over and pull Marluxia from the cooker before his shirt caught fire, but still as he lifted up the fabric there was a deep red welt on Marluxia's lower back.

"You moron."

"I'm so, so sorry," Marluxia managed as Vexen bent him over the kitchen table, wetted a towel and gently pressed it to the burn. He didn't know what kept him calm; he supposed that one of them always had to be the stronger. They couldn't _both_ be emotional trainwrecks; when Marluxia broke it felt like Vexen had stepped up to take his place and look after him. It was strange, that. Did that normally happen to two men forced to live together for extended periods of time? But whatever it was, Vexen's mind was still clear or detached enough to reply with a remark that he was sure he'd heard before, somewhere in a distant memory.

"Love makes fools of us all."

Marluxia managed to prise himself from the smooth table to stand, one hand taking hold of the towel cooling his back. He sought something in Vexen's eyes, and seemed to find it because one side of his mouth twitched and his gaze dropped to the over-syrupped pancakes.

"Yeah."

Vexen, for all his emotional failings, had a calculative and analytical mind, and it was with the mad rush of genius that had granted him a doctorate if not a wife that he stepped back and assessed the situation. Marluxia was not unattractive - in fact, quite the opposite - and nor was he unpleasant company. He was useful around the house, and his cooking was much, much better than Vexen's could ever hope to be. The only problem was that Marluxia was male, and so was Vexen. But what difference did it make, really? There were no end of homosexuals who lived completely straight lives, married partners of the opposite sex, even had children. So why should it be impossible for a heterosexual to do the same?

It wasn't even as though it would last terribly long; Marluxia, he was sure, would soon grow tired of Vexen's hesitant attempts at romance, and actually sleeping with a man who was literally nothing more than skin, bones and vital organs, would soon prove detrimental to comfort.

And anyway, his bed had, after all, always been built for two.

So Vexen closed his eyes for a moment, let scientific analogies make sense of the situation, and stepped forwards to brush his hand against Marluxia's arm and his lips against Marluxia's cheek.

"Whether it's any good or not," He whispered, "Walking around like you dumped a bottle of Pepto Bismol on your head suits you."

He felt the hot flush rise to Marluxia's face, and the muscles around his mouth twitch as he made to speak and found no words. Vexen reached around under the pretence of relieving Marluxia of the burden of the towel, and left his arm across the shorter man's lower back.

It took a few moments. Marluxia's own arm hesitantly lifted, rested against Vexen's hip, the one that had broken back at school and had never quite sat right ever since.

Cuddling. It had been a while since Vexen had done that. A long while indeed.

The next day it seemed like a dream, like all intimate encounters with Marluxia seemed like a dream, but all the little hints were there; Marluxia's hair was suddenly pink again, his eyes a little brighter, his smile not quite right because he was trying to reserve it, not force it onto his face. He was still hesitant about his actions, reaching only to stroke Vexen's arm, and the older blonde couldn't believe it when he, not Marluxia, was the one to initiate a shy, chaste cheek-kiss. And it was with honest amusement Vexen saw Marluxia try not to let his face light up with joy, and the next time they laughed they actually both managed to cry before they stopped.

It was tiny things, Vexen came to realise. It wasn't like snogging, or sex. It only took stupid little things to make Marluxia happy, like smiling when he said good morning, and leaning against him slightly on the sofa as they argued over watching documentaries or tacky horror movies, and letting him rest his head on Vexen's shoulder so they could both read the daily paper together.

And it was the stupid things, Vexen also realised. Marluxia, bless his soul, was not the brightest spark in the bunch, and it was the stupid things he did that made Vexen laugh and think that, yes, maybe he _could_, with a forgiving imagination.

And it was the cuddly things, too. Marluxia was both soft and dense simultaneously; he was like holding a sandbag, but his skin was smooth and his body flexible. They began with just touching each other's arms occasionally, then one evening when Vexen was doing the washing up for once, Marluxia's hands found his hips, and then everything seemed to be an opportunity for cuddling, whether it be mutual reading or television watching or just a generic sort of we're-not-doing-anything, let's-cuddle.

Vexen didn't really know what had happened, because he was still throwing up and fainting with unhealthy frequency, but things seemed to be different, not just because four days later, Marluxia came down with something and suffered his own bout of throwing up in the bathroom.

"... Eight nine seven nine three two thee eight four six two six four..."

"Were you quoting pi when I was throwing up just then?"

"Hell, if you can recite how to make a shirt, I think I'm allowed."

"You geek."

"At least I'm not a _housewife_."

"Oh, so it's not enough to insult my hair, you have to insult my masculinity, too?"

"What masculinity?"

"I... I really do loathe you sometimes, Vexen."

"Cuddle?"

"_Cuddle_."

* * *

A response to Sushibee's 018, Pepto Bismol. Because every emo prompt has to have a happy ending. u___u Set in the verse of our RP.


	11. 021 Trade

**021 - Trade**

_Larxene Carlisle_

They made the decision to trade when they were just twelve years old.

The two children, nearly identical twins, had been brought up good and proper by a couple who were not their parents, taught to respect the values of society like all good citizens. These they were both happy to follow in work, rest and play, bar a few minor mishaps that were of course forgiveable because they were still only young.

Except, as the two of them found out as they grew older and became not androgynous children but a young man and a young woman, when it came to the values of _gender_.

In this society, tradition ruled fast and strong - the boys went to school, the men had the jobs, the men did the dirty work. The women stayed at home, looked after the children and the house, catered for their hard-working husbands.

Larxene, every time she was stuffed into another flowery dress, loathed this. For her, her life was planned out from the word go just because of her gender - a man could become an academic, a mathematician, and inventor, a farmer, anything under the sun. But a woman had to stay at home in impractical dresses and cook and clean until the day grew old.

This knowledge gave her a sulky demeanour every morning as she watched her brother struggle into his smart blazer and cap for school, looking equally miserable. And when he came home one day and burst into tears because he didn't _understand_ anything, and he didn't want to be a boy any more, and he wished he was a girl because then he could wear pretty things and make pretty things and nobody would shoot him down, it set Larxene thinking.

A shaved head and a lot of trouble later, nobody could tell the two children apart. Nobody realised that the brighter Vexen who excelled in every class and looked so smart in his school uniform was actually Larxene. And likewise, no one ever suspected that the Larxene - her hair now falling well past her shoulders once more - who flounced with the mansion's maids and flirted with the guards outside was actually none other than Vexen.

And that was how it had been ever since. Vexen grew to be a somewhat flat-chested but nonetheless attractive woman, and Larxene became a skilled engineer, nimble fingers perfect for tweaking the complex machinery that she worked on.

They moved out of town when they were both eighteen, suitcases packed and Larxene, ironically, under orders to take good care of her sister until she found herself a good, respectable husband. Vexen made good friends with all the women in the small town where they settled down, and kept the house and garden in perfect order for his sister. Larxene, in Vexen's name, began a successful business selling and repairing motor engines.

It was sort of sad, though, Larxene thought as she bound her chest flat and added a thick layer of padding beneath a shirt patched a dozen times over by Vexen, and pulled on her breeches, because now everything was set in motion and it would never be possible to stop it. They were only half identical twins, after all, but now they were older they had both changed so much they were impossible to mistake for one another. If she were to fall in love with a man, Larxene knew that there would be no admitting her true gender. And if Vexen suddenly found himself in wanting of a wife, no woman would take him. So young, they had forsaken love for social comfort and a more suiting lifestyle.

But, she thought as a young woman caught her eye one morning on the way to her workshop, that wouldn't have mattered anyway because Larxene truly thought like a man - is she wanted a partner, she wanted one who was pretty and curvy and innocent. And Vexen, she realised, was similar. He looked at men. Dreamed of them.

But it was an impossible dream. Both of them must have known that the moment they traded, so many years ago.

* * *

_Marluxia Harcèlle_

It had been a hard winter for both of them. Political unrest was spreading through France like a beast; food and jobs were scarce. The trade sector had all but broken down, industrial manufacture brought to a standstill by a lack of raw materials and buyers of France's increasingly outdated technologies. So Marluxia Harcèlle had made the decision to take his cousin Naminé L'Aile across the channel on a paddle ferry to England before they both starved in the metal fields. It hasn't been an easy one; neither of them knew what would await in this new country and neither of them had much of a grasp on the English language. But they arrived in London, the Floating City, in October all the same, and found work to last them through the winter. Come spring, they moved east, and finally settled in a little town called Radiant Garden where Marluxia found a job out in the fields and Naminé proved herself useful running odd errands and ferrying goods back and forth between the local populace.

Marluxia first met the curious woman calling herself Larxene Carlisle on a journey that Naminé had sent him on to deliver spare parts to the house of a man named Vexen. That was half an hour ago, and Marluxia, loathe as he was to admit it, was lost. What he had been sure was Hawethorne lane now appeared to be the middle of nowhere, and Marluxia was hot and tired and thirsty. The damned box - and whatever was inside it - was heavy, and the sun was high in the sky, creating mirages on the rocky cobblestones of the road. So, sighing heavily to himself, he set the box down, pulled away his cotton shirt now damp and dirty from sweat, and crouched in what little shade there was by the hedge at the side of the road.

"_Merde_..."

A few minutes later his eyes picked out a vague shape in the distance, quickly approaching. A person on horseback. Marluxia, not wanting to offend, quickly replaced his shirt in time for a strikingly beautiful woman to trot up, bareback, on an oversized Shire. Her silken dress billowed in the wind and so did her golden hair, the subject of old paintings and ethereal inspiration for the great artists of this day and age.

Marluxia stood abruptly as she stopped and dismounted. She was tall, but nonetheless elegant, composed and very, very attractive.

"Good afternoon, stranger. What brings you here? Nothing lies this way but Hawethorne Cottage."

Marluxia pointed to the crate lying absently on the floor.

"I am on a delivery," He explained, accent still thick even after six months in England. "To a Monsieur Vexen Carlisle?"

"That would be my brother," The lady commented. "I am his sister, Larxene."

Marluxia nodded.

"My name is Marluxia Harcèlle." He said, thinking to wipe his hands on his breeches before he extended it for the mistress before him. She politely ignored it, and curtsied instead.

"From France?"

"The country has grown..." Marluxia scrabbled for the word, and found none. "_Dangereuse_."

"Political unrest," Miss Carlisle intoned dully. "One reads about that sort of thing in the papers a lot."

"_Oui_."

She nodded her head in the direction of the opposite way that she had come.

"I can take you to Hawethorne Cottage."

"_Merci, Mademoiselle_." Marluxia said with a flicker of a twinkle in his eye. "It is much appreciated."

"Oh, stop it with the French," Miss Carlisle insisted. "I do have a name, you know."

Marluxia simply smiled to himself and turned the name over in his mind. Larxene Carlisle. Well, Larxene Carlisle was a beautiful woman indeed. Which was odd because, as far as he could remember, Marluxia had never been interested in women before. But there was something very odd indeed about this particular one.

It took quite a few months, and a lot of flirting, for Marluxia to work out precisely what.

* * *

_Vexen Carlisle_

The heat of summer was always the worst time for a man pretending to be a woman. During this season all the young ladies truly showed off their gorgeous curves in single layered skirts and billowing, cool robes, but Vexen couldn't risk that sort of exposure and had to stay covered in modest, full length dresses all year around. He made excuses enough with a wide brimmed, floppy hat - his pale skin burned too easily - but still it was always a little disheartening to see the young ones dance and play in the meadows. He stayed with the older, married women, and gossiped as he mended Larxene's ever-ruined clothes.

There were other problems, too. Namely _men_. Specifically _Marluxia Harcèlle_.

The man seemed absolutely fascinated by Vexen's modest beauty and shy personality, which was all very well and wonderful, but Vexen doubted that he'd ever react well to finding out that the object of his affections was not actually a lovely young _Mademoiselle_, as he liked to say, but nothing less than a man. An effeminate one, granted, but a man nonetheless. Larxene had been mentioning a Miss L'Aile recently too, and Vexen understood the pain - those sorts of things could never be because no matter how perfect Larxene and Vexen were at pretending to be each other, when stripped down and bared their very bodies were the things to fail them.

It was August, the beginning of Autumn harvest, when Vexen found Marluxia knocking at his door with a bunch of flowers in his hands and a hopeful smile on his face.

"_Bonjour, ma belle Mademoiselle_,"

He'd blushed, ushering Marluxia inside.

"Don't flatter me, young man."

Marluxia laid the flowers on the table in the kitchen, smiling absently.

"I don't call it flattery."

Vexen shook his head, idly fiddling with a stray lock of his hair. It was curled, as always - it looked more effeminite that way, helped to hide his angular cheekbones and sinewey neck when thrown over one shoulder.

"Tea?"

"If you please."

Vexen busied himself with brewing two cups, occasionally glancing over his shoulder at Marluxia. The man visited frequently these days, for one reason or another - either deliveries for one of Larxene's pet projects, or because he had an afternoon free and nowhere else to go. Vexen, of course, kept perfect the illusion of being Larxene, and forced himself not to return any of Marluxia's affections, no matter how much he desired to get to know the man more intimately. He couldn't afford that kind of scandal.

"So what brings you here this time?"

Marluxia chuckled a little and leaned against the counter so that he could look Vexen in the eye.

"_Tu_."

"... Me?"

"_Oui._"

Vexen allowed himself to smile a little, and reached over to adjust the brass pipes on the side so that the water wouldn't whistle as it flowed from the taps.

"What _really_ brings you here?"

"You're not like other women," Marluxia commented flippantly, tracing patterns on the marble counter. Vexen felt himself freeze, just a little, beneath his carefully padded costume.

"Oh?"

"I do not have the slightest interest in other _femmes_," Marluxia continued, catching Vexen's gaze again. "There are so many in this town; _jolie, intéressante, vivante_... but none like you. You are a _femme fatale_, Larxene Carlisle."

Vexen swallowed thickly and set himself up to take the fall. He couldn't do what he wanted, and that was say yes; no doubt Marluxia would propose and on their wedding night...

"And I find myself-" Marluxia said thoughtfully, catching Vexen's chin between his forefinger and thumb, "Falling for you."

Vexen smiled ruefully and turned back to the tea.

"You know I cannot make that kind of commitment, Marluxia."

"Why not?" Marluxia instantly challenged.

"My brother needs me," Vexen said, the first excuse that came to his mind. "I need to look after the house and cook for him."

"I think it is high time that your brother found himself a wife so that I may have you for my own," Marluxia stated, prising Vexen's hands from the teacups and turning him, pressing him against the counter. Vexen felt his whole body react like electrocution to Marluxia's sudden close proximity, and willed himself to stay calm, react sensibly, and get Marluxia away. Even if he had to break the man's heart, it was safer than chancing his finding out about the truth.

Marluxia leaned forwards, and suddenly Vexen was acutely aware that even if he looked like he had breasts from the fabric pads in his dress, there was no cotton or silk that could actually have the same consistency of the correct anatomy. Marluxia would realise.

"_Ma Mademoiselle_."

Vexen opened his mouth to speak, prepared to push Marluxia away, but the man spoke again.

"Or should I say _mon Monsieur_?"

This time the tensing was not of arousal but horror. In nine years of wearing dresses and living a woman's life, nobody had ever called Vexen up on his true gender. Marluxia, now, was like a blow to the stomach. He and Larxene would be ruined. They'd have to move on, find a new life elsewhere. Everything would change.

"How long have you known?"

Again Marluxia laughed, deep and rich, and maybe he'd just breathed in but Vexen was sure that he could feel the other man's body press closer. He didn't seem too concerned about such intimacy with another male, but more than likely Vexen was just being hopeful.

"Not so long as one would expect,"

Marluxia's hands fell to Vexen's shielded body, feeling the curve of the fabric and underneath the masculine angles of Vexen's true figure.

"I very much desire to know what you really look like," He stated, and to Vexen it seemed like the word _desire_ seemed to drip with the very emotion it represented. He found himself whimpering a little, trapped between the kitchen counter and a gorgeous, gorgeous man, and no words to describe the twisting feelings curling in his gut.

And Marluxia's hands found his shoulders, found the divide between Vexen's clothing and Vexen's skin, and slid his fingers, so slowly, so tantatisingly, _in_. Across bony shoulders, arms and a chest flat by design, then down to conveniently wide hips until Vexen stood half naked in the presence of a person who was not his sister for the first time since he was twelve years old, and there were no. Words. To describe.

"_Curieux_," Marluxia half whispered, half moaned, hands roaming across Vexen's prickling skin, "That you are a _homme_ and I do not care at all."

Vexen closed his eyes and considered it not _curieux_ but a Goddamn _miracle_.

"What is your true name, _mon bel homme_?"

Vexen shivered in prising his fingers from the counter to find Marluxia's forearms in a gesture far more modest than the other man. He forced his eyes open, and carefully judged Marluxia's face, just in case his countennance would reveal dishonesty that his voice alone did not. Nothing in his half-lidded eyes and soft smile even hinted at betrayal.

"I am Vexen. Larxene is my sister."

"And she pretends to be you, and you pretend to be her," Marluxia clarified thoughtfully. Vexen searched his eyes again and nodded. Again, a foreign word he only half understood. "_Curieux_."

Vexen opened his mouth to elaborate but Marluxia stopped him with one finger.

"Say nothing, _mon femme fatale_," He chuckled, and leaned forwards to press to Vexen's lips a kiss he would never forget.

* * *

_Naminé L'Aile_

Since arriving in Radiant Garden, Naminé L'Aile had found herself acutely aware of every single gorgeous woman in the town. She'd always been this way - not interested in the rugged charms of men, but the perfect, heavenly beauty of women - and this town of English Roses was no exception. All pale as untouched snow, with hair every shade of black, blonde and red under the sun. Naminé was both thankful and jealous. It was not her place to stare at their perfect bodies, but nobody noticed her do so under the brim of her hat; she could fantasise all she liked, but it would never happen.

But, Naminé realised with a jolt one morning when a certain Vexen Carlisle greeted her with a lopsided grin at Hawethorne cottage, there seemed to be just one man that she actually cared to like.

Vexen Carlisle was not a large man by any means. He was the shortest that Naminé knew, but he more than made up for that by his rowdy, wholesome personality and easygoing demeanour. Unlike Larxene, his twin sister, who was shy and introverted, Vexen was boisterous and social, and as Naminé soon found out, wonderful company. There seemed to be a lot of deliveries to his workshop near the centre of town, and after a few weeks, Naminé learned to leave plenty of extra time when delivering to Vexen. She usually sent Marluxia on the long trips back to Vexen and his sister Larxene's house since he appeared to be interested in the woman who lived there, which also had the added advantage of allowing her to spend more time at the work shop with Vexen.

Today the package was tiny, just one spare part for an engine belonging to one farmer that had broken, and Naminé left it until last so that maybe she should watch Vexen mending the machine with his surprisingly delicate fingers. She arrived at the workshop just as the sun was sinking below the horizon, and the door jangled familiarly as she stepped inside.

"Vexen?"

He grasp of English was far more minimal than Marluxia, having always relied on her cousin to translate - but in the past few months she had definitely expanded her vocabulary, mostly in mechanical terms.

There was no reply, so Naminé stepped inside into the dusty room - how desperate its need for a woman's touch here to keep it clean - and looked around.

"Vexen?"

There was a muffled shout from another room, and even Namin had to duck below the arch into a cavernous room filled with a gigantic, smoking machine. She quickly stepped out again, coughing, followed by a sooty Vexen.

"Ah. Naminé. You got that cog I needed, aincha?"

Naminé nodded, trying not to blush in the object of the one man she liked. She supposed that it was Vexen's round face and wide eyes, small hands and small stature, that she liked. He was effeminate, in a way that drew Naminé in.

"_Oui_."

She passed the parcel to Vexen, who unwrapped it and held the glinting component up to the light.

"Perfect. _Tres merci,_ Naminé."

Naminé laughed at the badly pronounced French and hung expectantly around Vexen. The engineer pulled four shiny silver coins from his pocket and passed them to her.

"Here ya go."

"_Merci_."

"You got time to chat?"

"Of course."

Vexen patted one of the work benches and Naminé brushed the worst of the dust and wood chippings away to sit.

"So," Vexen said as he pottered about the workshop, heaving out an engine in which to fit the final cog. "You seem to be visiting me a lot."

"_J'aime_ your... company," Naminé said. Vexen smiled to himself, smearing dirt onto his face as he worked. The smell of oil was thick in the air, staining his breeches and apron, and still in the cloggy atmosphere he worked with a precision Naminé admired and envied.

"Is that all?"

"What do you mean?" Naminé asked, finding herself leaning forwards a little. Vexen met her eyes.

"You seem to be rather... doting..." He said simply.

"I do not know that word," Naminé replied apologetically, cocking her head a little. What was this silence suddenly descending on the pair in the workshop? What was this hummingbird flutter in her chest?

"Interested?"

"Non."

"Loving?"

That, Naminé understood. She blushed heavily and let out a nervous giggle, swinging her legs. Vexen sighed, pulling away his gloves and setting his tools down.

"Naminé, I am a woman."

Naminé understood that too. She stared at Vexen - no, not Vexen, that couldn't have been his - _her_ - real name - as realisation and curiosity and amazement dawned.

"It's a secret," The engineer replied, pulling her goggles away from her head and laying those on the table, too. "_Secret_. Shhh."

Naminé nodded, and slipped from the bench.

"Who are you?" She whispered, reaching up to press a hand to the other woman's chest. Yes - she could feel the bump of a breast beneath tight bindings. It seemed too good to be true. A woman, a woman that she adored, hiding under the pretence of being male? A woman who she considered a close friend and whose name she did not even know.

"I am Larxene."

"Larxene," Naminé repeated. "Who is the woman in your house who is also Larxene?"

"That's my twin brother," Larxene explained. "Brother. _Mon frére_. Vexen."

Naminé nodded, her mouth forming an _o_ of surprise and realisation. Funny. She'd met the woman not really called Larxene a few times before, and if there was a man hiding beneath those dresses and curled hair and make up, he was very good at disguising himself indeed.

"_Je t'aime_," She whispered when English words failed her, and Larxene seemed to understand, drawing her into a dirty, oily kiss that Naminé would never forget.

* * *

Excuse the poor French. I haven't taken that class for nearly three years. Also excuse any typos.

If anyone's confused, in Naminé and Marluxia's points of view, Larxene is actually Vexen and Vexen is actually Larxene.


	12. 023 Viola

**023 - Viola**

They looked like they had faces, damn it.

Lumaira sighed at the arrangement of flowers in the bunch in front of him, and looked at his fingers.

They'd been shredded by the thorns of the roses he'd spent a good half an hour stripping before deciding that they weren't subtle enough, and moving onto something else - pansies.

But the pansies looked liked they had faces, and the faces were leering at him and the last thing Lumaira wanted to insinuate was that he was a pervert.

Because he wasn't, he swore to God.

He pulled the pansies from the bunch and set them to the side. Perhaps they were just too convoluted. But Lumaira had quite liked the meaning of the blue and purple pansies - thoughtfulness and love. That was what he was trying to say, after all, and these flowers said it perfectly.

Except it wasn't so perfect when he had to explain it, and they had God damn _faces_.

Freethinking, Lumaira thought miserably as he pulled the stripped roses back to the bunch, nestling them in amongst the ferns and ivy, the purple hyacinths. They looked gaudily over dramatic. He took them out again.

Pansy. The name itself gave out entirely the wrong vibe. But Lumaira liked its other name - viola. That was beautiful, thoughtful... that was what Lumaira wanted it to mean. But he was a little afraid that the object of his affections would see a pansy, and a face, and get the wrong meaning entirely.

But freethinking. Logical, scientific reasoning. Thoughtfulness. _Love_.

Lumaira sighed again, and laid the bunch-in-the-making down.

It was a stupid idea anyway. Trying to give the most unromantic boy in the year flowers. On his birthday. Which was a Sunday. Which meant stalking him.

But... he'd bought them all now. He'd picked them all out; the roses - I love you - the hyacinths - I'm sorry - and the violas.

I've thought about this a lot, I'm not joking, and I seriously, seriously madly love you.

Rushing out to the garden to pluck some forget-me-nots from the flowerbed for aesthetic purposes, Lumaira threw all of the flowers in, laid it out nicely, and gave it a critical look. Like that boy would know the symbolism anyway. Flowers were flowers. They'd either work, or they wouldn't.

Lumaira found his trainers, tied his laces, and stepped out onto the cool February breeze. But damn it, those violas were glaring at him with their melting, sunken faces.

The boy's house was quite a way away from Lumaira's, but he knew every step by heart, no matter how convoluted the route. Lumaira arrived eventually, stepped up the drive, knocked on the door.

There was no reply for quite some time.

And then the door opened a crack, and Even Carlisle's face peeked through. His hair seemed in a bit of a mess, and... he didn't seem to be wearing a shirt. Lumaira's heart leapt.

"Yes?"

"Um. Hi."

"How do you know where I live?"

"Never mind that," Lumaira said, collecting himself and pulling the flowers out from behind his back, "I... I have a confession to make."

Even looked disdainfully at the flowers.

"I'm busy."

"Yes, I know," Lumaira quickly said, already having come up with the possibility that Even would be spending his birthday with his family. "But I want you to know... well, I want you to know that I'm serious about liking you. Not just physically, but romantically too. And... and I'm sorry I harass you at school about it. But I've never felt this way about anyone else before."

He thrust the flowers in Even's direction, and the taller boy didn't take them immediately. He must have felt intimidated, Lumaira supposed. Well, fair enough.

"I-"

"What do they want?"

Somebody in the darkness of the house piped up, and Lumaira peered around Even to try to see who it was.

"Who's that?"

Even quickly stepped in the doorway, revealing a perfect, pale chest, and... an undone fly?

"Nobody."

"Oh... okay. Well, anyway, I was saying-"

Lumaira found himself distracted by Even, more naked than he'd ever seen the boy before, and it was... very, very attractive indeed. There was a slight sheen of what Lumaira assumed was sweat on Even's skin, making it glint in the light. It was incredible in its sheer ability to stop Lumaira's thoughts dead in their tracks.

"I can understand why- why you wouldn't want to be with me, because I'm a jerk and all and you probably don't have time for that... that sort of thing, but I think you deserve to know that I really, really do love you."

He jerked the flowers forwards again, and clearly reluctant, Even took them.

"Is that all?"

Lumaira felt his heart sinking a little. Whatever he'd been hoping for, that was not it. But he'd told himself that he wouldn't harass Even again about this. He'd come clear and that was that and that would be the end of it unless Even wanted more.

"Yeah. I suppose it is."

"Okay."

"Oh, and Happy Birthday. And Valentine's Day."

Because damn it, why did Even's birthday have to be on the fourteenth of February?

And, damn it again and again, the violas were staring at him. Lumaira stayed hanging on the front step for some time, watching Even inspect the flowers.

"Lumaira," He said eventually. "You... you do know that I've been dating Xehanort for three months, don't you?"

Lumaira opened his mouth and nothing came out until a nervous, shocked little laugh toppled from his lips.

"Uh... yeah. Of course. But I thought you should still know. You know. Um."

Even rolled his eyes, and gave back the flowers.

"Maybe you should keep those, then."

Lumaira could do nothing but dumbly nod.

"Y-yeah."

The door closed and Lumaira wandered two blocks before he stopped and sat down on someperson's front wall.

And when he looked again at those sunken faces, the violas were crying with him too.

* * *

From Pretending, the Even/Xehanort story. What about Lumaira?

Based on bad experiences with a whole flowerbed of pansies at my old school that kept on staring at me.


	13. 025 Tricky

**025 - Tricky**

Vexen was six years old when he first fell in love. He remembers it very well; he'd been at the zoo with his mum and dad and towards the end of the day after they'd finally prised him away from the penguin exhibit, he stepped in through a set of automatic doors and there he was. It was love at first sight.

Oh, it's twenty-three years until he'll meet Larxene Underwood and Naminé L'Aile, and another before Marluxia LaRue will enter the scene and set Vexen's heart a-fluttering again. But this, this was true love that sustained puberty and loneliness, university and debt, jobs and no jobs and more debt, and not-really-consensual-sex.

Six-year-old Vexen stared up at the shelf where his love lay, and stared with his mouth hanging open until his mother bustled over and knelt down beside him.

"He's a big one, isn't he?"

Vexen, who was then even less tactless than he is now, pointed with his whole arm outstretched.

"I want him."

His mum had tutted a little, and reached out to pick up a smaller specimen from a lower shelf.

"How about this one?"

Vexen shook his head, batting the inadequate proposal away.

"I want the big one."

His mother sighed, and stood to inspect the price tag. It made her blanch.

"Do you have fifty-nine pounds ninety-nine on you to buy him?"

"I'll pay you back," Vexen promised earnestly, his bottom lip beginning to quiver all on its own. Visions of penguins and tigers and lions and jellyfish from the day had melted clean away, replaced by just one single thought. No matter the cost, he had to have him.

His mother laughed and steered him away, but his head twisted back again, unwilling to accept defeat.

"Can I have him for my birthday?"

"Your birthday isn't for another four months."

"Can I have him instead of my birthday?"

"No."

"Please?"

"Come on, we'll get you a little one. Aren't they pretty?"

"No. He's prettier."

Vexen pointed again, up to the highest shelf where there was room for just one gigantic, fluffy toy polar bear with shiny white fur, big black paws and a slightly lopsided but nonetheless amazing grin.

"You're being unreasonable," Vexen's mother said, and Vexen didn't understand because he was being very reasonable indeed. He wanted the giant polar bear. Why couldn't he have him?

"Can I have him for my birthday _and_ next Christmas?"

When even this didn't seem satisfactory, Vexen peeled himself away from his mother and ran over to his dad, who was inspecting the chocolate aisle.

"Dad~dy..."

"What is it, son?"

"How long would it take me to pay back fifty nine pounds ninety nine if I get fifty pee pocket money a week?"

His father had laughed, ruffling his hair. Vexen disapproved of this, because that insinuated that he was joking.

"A very long time. What the hell d'you want that costs so much in here? You wanna buy the real life panda or something?"

Vexen pointed.

"No."

"Please!"

Vexen's father simply walked off to look at another aisle, apparently no longer interested. Vexen realised that this was going to be very, very tricky. But he was not going to give up, because he was six years old and determined and in love with a toy polar bear that he was much, much too short to reach.

He tried jumping, but all he could do was brush his fingertips against the very bottom of the polar bear's toes. There was nothing much to climb on, except baskets of little penguins and lemmings, but that seemed disrespectful.

But Vexen really wanted that polar bear. Really, really wanted, with a harsh, burning desire that he had never felt before, and somehow he just iknew/i that without the polar bear, his life would just be incomplete.

Eventually he found a shopkeeper checking the aisles, and tugged her over, pointing to the bear.

"I want him," He said.

She laughed a little.

"Have you asked your parents?"

"Yes. They said no."

"Then I'm sorry, little chap, I'm afraid I can't help."

"Can I take him out on a mortgage?" Vexen asked, knowing very well that if one wanted something from an adult, then one had to use such advanced vocabulary because it made one seem more intelligent. This time, however, he was unsuccessful. The woman chuckled again and leaned down to pat his shoulder, then walked away.

But Vexen was not going to give up. No matter how tricky this got, he was not going to go home without that polar bear in his arms. So he resorted to other means. Namely, other innocent shoppers.

"Hey, mister? Could you help me, please?"

Most of them ignored him.

"My mum said that I could have that big polar bear up there if I could get him down. Can you help me?"

So that was a Lie, and Lies were Wrong, but it was a Lie that worked. Eventually, five or six unhelpful people later, Vexen had the polar bear in his arms. Its massive bulk dwarfed him, but somehow he managed to stagger over to his mother.

"Please."

"How did you get that down?"

Vexen poked his head out of the white, fluffy fur.

"I'll pay it all back even if it takes ten years. _Please_."

He gave her his most imploring look, and squeezed his arms around the polar bear until it wiggled suggestively. He could _see_ her trying to say no, and he stuck his bottom lip out a little, holding the polar bear very, very close.

"I'll ask your father."

Vexen tottered over to the checkout counter and plonked himself down with the polar bear. He felt, after a moment, that somebody was watching him, and looked up to see the cashier watching him from over the desk.

"I'm going to buy him," He explained, pointing to the polar bear on his lap. "Except I only get fifty pee a week so I might be here a while."

She laughed at him.

"Okay, then."

A few minutes later, his parents came over.

"Come on, Vexen, time to take the bear back."

"I'll pay for him," Vexen promised again, hands clasping protectively around the bear's stomach again.

"Vexen..."

Vexen ignored the dangerous tone that his mother's voice had taken on, and let his face settle into a petulant scowl that he was, for a six year old, very practised at.

"I won't go home without him."

"_Vexen_..."

"It's cruel to leave him here!" Vexen blurted out, and was instantly surprised by himself, because he hadn't believed that toys were secretly real since at least last year.

There was a long, long pause. Mum and Dad looked at each other, then back at Vexen. It was his father who spoke first.

"How much was it, again?"

"Sixty bloody pounds."

"Ouch."

"And birthday and Christmas," Vexen quickly interjected.

There was nothing compared to the feeling of triumph, before or since, when Vexen's father sighed and fumbled in his pocket for his wallet.

"Sixty bloody pounds."

Ten minutes later, Vexen was staggering into the car park with the biggest polar bear in his arms and the biggest grin on his face.

"I'm going to call him Snjór. And I'm going to keep him for ever and ever. And I'm going to cuddle him in bed every night and take him everywhere I go and, and and and-"

* * *

Set twenty-something years before the start of Blondes. When Vexen was little he wanted to be a climate research scientist and loved polar bears. Particularly Snjór, whose name means snow in Icelandic. How the hell littlekid!Vexen knows that, I have no idea. He's smart.


	14. 027  Twins

**027 - Twins**

Marluxia hated the fact that he couldn't tell Even and Vexen Carlisle apart. Seriously. It was the most annoying thing in the _world_.

Actually, it was the second most annoying thing in the world. Because the most annoying thing was the fact that Marluxia had fallen in love with one or other of them somewhere along the five-year line that the three of them had been in the same school and it really was like loving one entity, except they weren't. They _nearly_ were - they dressed the same, wore their hair in the same style, even finished each other's sentences - but Marluxia knew that it was not socially acceptable to date two people at once, no matter how goddamn similar they were.

He tried, once. Decided on the tactic of Pick One At Random and Stick With Him, and one afternoon he found Even or Vexen pulling things out of his locker and jogged over.

"Hey," He began, and had a breakthrough with the folder that the boy was carrying, "Vexen."

"It's Even," The twin curtly replied, pulling out another folder also marked with Vexen's name. Marluxia pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. Bad start. He'd have to stick with Vexen now, because that was the first name he'd said.

"Oh. Right. You don't happen to know where your brother is, do you?"

Even shook his head, long blonde hair swinging.

"I haven't got a clue. Honestly, keeping tabs on that thing is impossible."

"Thing?" Marluxia echoed, laughing a little nervously. "I see you care about him a lot."

Even looked Marluxia dead in the eye, and Marluxia was caught by those green orbs of which there were four.

"More than anything."

Even grinned and stalked away.

Marluxia tried the subtle approach, dropping hints here and there, but he kept talking to the wrong twin at the wrong time. He tried memorising every detail of each boy, but they really were identical. Their skin was too clear to be differential, their mannerisms perfectly tuned as though for the sole purpose of being impossible to tell apart. He'd been caught staring, once.

"I'm trying to tell you two apart," He explained quickly when Even - he knew it was Even, because that was the name he'd responded to on the register - picked him up on his staring. They'd both laughed in unison.

"Good luck," Vexen said. "Not even our mother-"

"- Can tell us apart."

"You're Even," Marluxia announced, more accusingly than he meant to, pointing to the closest boy. "And you're Vexen."

"Wrong." They said together, and laughed again.

Marluxia even tried using Sharpie. He'd caught one of them alone, and triumphantly pulled out a pen, drawing a cross on the boy's hand.

"There. You're- Even, right?"

"Uh-huh."

"Now I'll know that you're you because you have a cross on your hand. Until the ink rubs off. Then I'll draw it again until I know."

It had seemed like the perfect plan until Marluxia found the two of them in the canteen at lunch, laughing at each other, and sat down with his tray next to the one he knew was Even because there was the cross on his hand, plain as could be.

"Aha! You're Even!"

It had worked, too, until the other twin grinned and lifted up his hand to reveal an identical cross.

"Sorry, Mar."

"Gotta keep you on your toes."

Eventually Marluxia knew that the only thing to do was come clean to both of them that even if he always called Even Vexen and Vexen Even, he loved them both dearly both as friends and the fantastical dream of more. So he called them both up one day after school outside the gates after everyone else had filtered through. They way they stood together, double vision, was quite intimidating.

"Vexen," Marluxia said, picking one out at random. For once, the boy actually nodded. "And Even. I..." He faltered, feeling ridiculous. But no, this wasn't a move on either of them, this was just a confession. "I have something I want to tell you both. And I know this sounds kind of odd... but..."

They both watched him with exactly the same mixture of absent friendliness, curiosity and downright amusement that made Marluxia's heart flutter and his stomach curl. Oh, he'd had plenty of sick dreams providing plenty of detail on the advantages of having two identical lovers, but that was completely wrong. If Marluxia wanted in on the Vexen-Even blend, he'd have to choose one or the other.

"Well, I love you. Both of you. I know you're only supposed to love one person but I honestly love both of you because you practically _are_ one. I couldn't choose between you because that'd be unfair on the one I didn't pick. But I just want you to know. Yeah."

They'd both cracked a grin.

"Thanks," One of them said, and the other finished. "For being honest."

"Well," Marluxia mumbled, blushing furiously as he scratched the back of his neck, "It's only fair. Even if-"

He was interrupted by two sets of lips, one on each cheek.

"If you ever-"

"- change your mind."

The twins were gone, and in their wake Marluxia was left with a burning desire for _both_ of them.


	15. 029 Tail

**029 - Tail**

There was something beautiful about the things that made Marluxia a werewolf. It seemed like a distant memory, seeing the crescent moon on his cheek and only a monster, because now if anything I treasured the warmth of his body, the strength of his muscles, the sharpness of his teeth and the intensity of his canine gaze. And, of course, the things most noticeable about him - his pert ears and fluffy tail.

There was a soft patch at the base of his ears that I loved to scratch, knowing that it would melt him completely, and even moreso the deceptively smooth tail that was long enough to curl around us both at night, keep our naked bodies close and warm.

It was longer than most, I came to learn. Fluffier, too. Werewolf tails ranged in a great scale from practically rats-tails to those the size and volume of Marluxia's, a few of the younger ones with tails proportionately so big that they could curl their entire bodies up inside a blanket of fluff. Some werewolves only had half a tail. Some had no tails at all.

But Marluxia's tail, I loved the most. It sometimes seemed to have a life of its own, brushing against my hand under the table when the two of us argued over a meal, or whacking a troublesome Demyx upside in the head when he was too loud, too forward or too, well, like Demyx. In the darkness it was cool, in the rain it sank down to the bone and dripped, in the sun it absorbed the heat and radiated it around my stomach...

Perhaps the best was when Marluxia would absently wander about the house with no clothes on, and use his tail to cover himself just about appropriately. Or when Marluxia stretched in the morning, flicked his tail to and fro in the low eastern sunlight. Or when Marluxia used his tail to balance, on a roof or a branch or a table of a bed.

If asked before, and by some peculiarity I'd actually seen fit to answer, I would have assumed that a tail would have got in the way. I could fit my hand around the bone, the extension of Marluxia's coccyx, and feel the fur compress if I ran my hand down its entire three-or-four foot length. Still, that sort of mass ought to have been irritating in such things, and yet it was just one of those things about Marluxia that I grew to helplessly love; the fact that he could lie flat on a bed with his hands on my shoulders and still caress the small of my back, or press himself into my chest and onto the mattress simultaneously. It wasn't something I could expect a third party to appreciate the attraction of. I wouldn't have done, if Marluxia hadn't shown me.

And show me he did, in more ways than my relatively uncreative mind could possibly have conjured alone.

* * *

From my fanfiction The Unwanted, where Marluxia is a werewolf, and Vexen is an ordinary human.


	16. 031 Fold

**031 - Fold**

It'd been four years since Even and Vexen had moved into a little apartment near Cambridge University. There had been a bit of drama surrounding the procedure; partly pertaining the fact that they'd been eighteen years old and their mother _still_ couldn't tell them apart, but mostly because she'd walked in on them making out with that boy Marluxia one night a few years back. Both of them.

Yeah. That had lead to a lot of trouble. Nowadays Even and Vexen didn't try to date the same person, and if they did they didn't do it simultaneously. It was interesting to see how some people coped with trying to tell them apart - mostly failing - because at the end of the day there were only two people who knew for certain which way around the twins were, which were themselves.

The apartment they lived in didn't have room for utilities like washing machines; instead there were a collection of the machines in the basement, fully three floors below. So every week one of the pair would collect up the baskets of washing, and carry them down the stairs (neither of them trusted the lift) to get it all clean.

Today it was Vexen doing the work; he was up early - as usual - and at seven in the morning he carried the baskets down, set them on the floor beside an unoccupied washer. He wasn't alone for once - a man with familiarly pink hair was bent over one of the tumble driers, hauling a sheet out with some difficulty. Vexen instantly recognised the glance of a face that he caught, and slipped over to rest his arms and chin on the drier.

"Hello, you."

The man snapped his head up, and stared for a full ten seconds before he hazarded a guess.

"Even...?"

"Vexen, actually. It's been a while."

Four years, Vexen thought as he slipped around to draw himself up against Marluxia's body. Stockier than he remembered; still just not-quite tall enough to reach Vexen's eyes. Same broad shoulders and narrow hips, square chin and deep eyes as the sixteen-year-old boy that Vexen so vividly remembered.

Marluxia dropped the half-folded sheet with a sudden laxation of his fingertips.

"Yes," He said thoughtfully, and somehow Vexen knew that they were feeling the same chemistry inside, years later - _years_ later, and when lips met with open welcome, it was like nothing had changed at all. Hands grazed familiar and alien bodies, fingertips swept flawless and imperfect skin.

A few minutes later washing and conscience interrupted and Vexen reluctantly pulled away.

"I've missed you. We both have."

Marluxia leaned down to pick his sheet from the floor.

"You're still with him, presumably, then."

Vexen nodded, bundling his own crumpled washing into the machine and switching it on.

"_With_ with?"

"Occasionally."

Marluxia nodded a little himself, leaning against the tumble drier. It had taken him a while to realise that Even and Vexen weren't just close as brothers - but since it wasn't something that anybody considered socially or morally acceptable, they'd always covered their tracks well.

"And you?"

Marluxia glanced up as the washing machine whirred to life.

"A few, here and there. Single at the moment."

Vexen reached out and tugged Marluxia closer by his wrist.

"How long have you been here?"

"I moved in the other day. I had no idea you lived here too."

"Lucky," Vexen said thoughtfully. Then he paused, lips barely an inch from meeting Marluxia's again. Something was missing and both of them knew it.

"Even."

The laundry forgotten, the two of them hurried up the stairs, only Marluxia's sheet trailing behind them.

"Even!"

An identical copy of Vexen popped out from the kitchen door, and smiled suddenly.

"Where'd you find him?"

"On the tumble dryer."

"Bedroom."

"Bedroom."

Marluxia found himself swept by Vexen and Even's collective mind into a small room on the left, and down onto the folds of a half made bed, desperately trying to keep up with two hot mouths on his skin and four cool hands peeling away his clothes. He couldn't stop a moan rising from his throat as his lips found either Vexen or Even, and one hand slipped below the waistband of another's jeans. Oh, God. Marluxia, like any other male, had watched plenty of threesomes late at night from his laptop, but this was something else entirely. He was naked within minutes, finding one twin with legs open wide beneath him, another draped hotly over his back.

As the same blond hair that fanned out on the pillow slipped over Marluxia's collarbone and a wet tongue trailed past his ear, Marluxia let out a guttural moan and pressed himself between the two bodies, perfect and duplicate down to the last painstaking detail. Whatever society said about _this_, he knew with every screaming cell in his body that this was the _best_ sex he'd ever had.


	17. 033 Hourglass

**033 - Hourglass**

_17_

There's a certain curve to Evenne's body that everybody likes. All the boys at school stare at her even when she wears the loosest of baggy jumpers, all the men turn their heads on the street. Evenne tries out a boyfriend, some cute guy in the year above her, but there's a curve to his lips and a curve at his groin that she soon grows to hate. She tries the goofy kid at the back of the science club, but he hasn't got any curves for her to love - he's a sweet enough little thing, but he and she live in different worlds, close by mind and far by physical form.

_21_

There's a certain curve to Evenne's body that these men aren't interested in in the slightest. It's a welcome change, Evenne thinks as she stretches in comfortable, close fitting clothes and knows that everybody here is too busy looking for curves in other places to pay attention to hers. There's this one, a flamboyant fruitcake by the kindest of standards, with bright pink hair and a definite curve to his body that Evenne knows a great deal of these men would appreciate. A lot. He's the one that waltzes up to her, gropes her, and laughs before buying her a drink and promptly snogging an innocent, male passer by. He's the one who tells her to check out this chick, over there by the dance floor. He's the one she thanks after she knows she's got it all sorted.

_23_

There's a certain curve to Evenne's body that Kairi likes. Well, there are a lot of them to choose from, but Kairi likes _that_ one the best, the swell of Evenne's hips, a curious mixture of angular bone and padded flesh. But Kairi got in with a fake iD, and anyway, Kairi likes this one girl at school who's not got curves like Evenne has. It's only a one night stand.

_25_

There's a certain curve to Evenne's body that L'Erena loves. Not specifically, actually. Every one. The arc of generous breasts, the roll from a narrow waist to wide hips, each kink of a bony ribcage below a sheen of fat. L'Erena could wax poetic for hours about Evenne's body, if she had the words to describe. But she doesn't, her mind or vocabulary or education to sparing for any imitation of a Shakespearean sonnet. Lumaira, now he has the capacity to moan for hours - in both senses of the word - about a single detail of a lover (usually his cock), but L'Erena prefers to use her hands. To thread her fingers, tantalisingly, across shoulders, down forearms, lacing with the hands of her lover for life. Evenne could name every bone, every muscle and tendon and fibre, but L'Erena couldn't care less. Curves are curves, and beautiful curves are the substance of her dreams, and when her dreams are a tangible, perfect hourglass, she's not going to waste her breath on words.


	18. 035 Hooked

**035 - Hooked**

_To weave into a tale the spindle fibres of addiction is a challenge for any writer. They aren't always purely biological - into the web has slipped desire, passion, obsession... There are addictions for mind-altering substances, for sexual pleasure, for money or even people..._

Sometimes, Vexen felt as though he were addicted to all of these. In the dark rustle of bedsheets, the heavy weight of another body beside him, Vexen would wonder how he had survived alone in a basement void of beauty or desire.

He wasn't - of course. Not really. The others were far more sexual by nature (_they_ had sex on screen, _he_ just did it in a bed). _They_ were the ones who danced shamelessly in tight leather; _he_ just brooded in modest clothes at the bar until someone would drag him kicking and screaming onto the dance floor. Usually Marluxia.

That man had changed things. A lot of things. He'd thrust Vexen - _literally_ - into a whirlwind of sex, socialisation and the steady thrum of needy passion.

Sometimes Vexen didn't know if he really liked Marluxia, or if he was just hooked on the sex. It was good sex - the kind where, hell, anything went, because a million to one Marluxia hadn't done worse at work. It had surprised Vexen that the kind of sex he had with Marluxia wasn't like the sex he saw on screen. It was one thing to watch carefully choreographed false erotica and quite another to actually have that very man in his bed, in his ear, in his body, tangible and three-dimensional, a surreal kind of warm, intimate, interactive porn.

Sometimes... sometimes Vexen thought that maybe it was just the sex, because Marluxia was so experienced, so bloody arousing. But then they'd spend the afternoon in a café, or a park, or a museum, laughing and hugging like normal couples, and Vexen would think, well, maybe it was just the having the boyfriend, the someone special to kiss in public and in private and even on the back seat of the last train home from London town.

But then, there were moments where Marluxia did things that only a Marluxia - and an idiotic one, at that - would do; cute things, perverted things, stupid things, things that made Vexen smile and things that flushed him redder than a beetroot, and Vexen knew that he couldn't deny it - the thing he was hooked on was _Marluxia_.

* * *

From my old fanfic _Perfect_, where Vexen is a prude and Marluxia is a porn star. Good times.


	19. 037 Dreams

**037 - Dreams**

But oh, then there are the dreams.

Even had not previously dreamed often; even less frequently did he ever remember them. But life after death was different in a thousand ways and one of them was the dreams. Vivid, tangible, a blaze of memories that hadn't ever quite been there before; it felt like his subconscious was watching television, or something, programmed to repeat on the Discovery Channel. Every morning he'd wake and realise something knew, know something he'd never learned. He didn't have the words to describe but it was, like knowledge pouring into his sleeping mind, and he was scared.

This was not how people learned! Children were educated, they didn't simply wake up one morning to suddenly understand complex irrational numbers or know that in the far reaches of the world, another child had died of a famine ravaging a country too poor or corrupt to spare a penny at the cost of a life.

But... Even had always been of a curious nature, and as links and chains and snapshots of cognition seeped into his brain, his mind began to tell him not to fear the curious understanding, but welcoming it with open arms.

After all, if resurrection wasn't so impossible, what in comparison was curious nothingness to knowledge?

* * *

But _oh_, then there are the dreams.

Nobodies do not dream. Pure fact. When they sleep they almost cease to exist entirely, their bodies empty shells where the soul is too flighty to rest and dream. But, Marluxia thinks as he goes about his daily duties, that's not to say that dreaming is impossible. There are hopes, wants, aspirations - and Marluxia is familiar to them all. Of course he wants his heart back, and always was the desire to rule the Organisation for both the good of the Nobodies as he has them believe, and the drunken sensation of power. Leadership, Marluxia has learned, is knowing that the power is there, there for the abuse and taking - and leaving it there where it belongs.

Hopes...? Marluxia isn't so sure. But there is one thing he thinks he'd rather like, one thing with eyes only for science and a figure that Marluxia secretly knows he would die to get his hands on. _Literally_. One thing that is trying so desperately to cling to threats of the past, but Marluxia knows just can't help but smile when somebody takes an acute interest in his work, who is so obviously convincing himself that he really _does_ need to visit the top floor of the Castle That Never Was six times a day for business purposes only.

Yes. That's definitely a dream Marluxia thinks that he'd quite like to have.

* * *

But oh, then there are the _dreams_.

Sometimes, Vexen still wakes up screaming, his body slick with sweat and his heart racing as though it's still pumping blood to his dying body as dust and debris flowers in his face. Each tick of the clock is another bullet and Vexen knows that one has his name written on it, any second now he'll fall, his heart will give way and out will pour burning blood. Every goddamn footstep is the enemy, each burst of a car engine outside is a bomb, and Vexen screams until hands grasp at his forearms and a fervent mouth meets his in a desperate, passionate kiss.

Even so, his body is always rigid and every scar still blisters from the images that cannot simply fade away, and Vexen may very well be on the fourth floor of a smart apartment building, on the left, but in his mind the dirt of Vietnam is still his bed, the army barracks his home with all eyes watching for him to take a wrong step and die on a minefield or live forever in shame.

Because the war might be over for the protesters in the streets, the shamed politicians in their smart office suits, but in Vexen's mind still the battle continues to rage.

* * *

But oh, _then_ there are the dreams.

The worst thing is that Vexen's subconscious doesn't seem to have realised that it was _rape_. It dreams as though Vexen _wanted _Marluxia's hot, flirtatious whispers in his ear, his experienced fingers curling around areas that Vexen would believe were sensitive with varying degrees of readiness. It shifts through Vexen's mental storage, picking out only the parts where he had to bite down into the pillow to keep from moaning, or the parts where his head span and his vision blurred. It twists the truth as Vexen sleeps and he feels like he's beginning to believe that he desired Marluxia, after all, because -

- _no_. There's no logic. There's no sense, because Marluxia is a man and Marluxia came in unbidden and Marluxia laughed and Marluxia _left_. What does it matter any more?

And Vexen wants to know, because it _does_, deep in his heart when he dreams and when he shifts like a machine through his daily life. It matters because he's hurt, because he's confused, because he knows that Marluxia was the last chance that he had and maybe he could have, maybe he could have-

But the worst part is the knowing that this was the _bed_, and this was the _body_, and this was the brilliant mind in helpless surrender, and this is another night where the dreams will warp reality or maybe the way that Vexen pretended that he ever used to be.

* * *

But oh, then there are the dreams.

Marluxia wonders what Vexen dreams about sometimes. He knows of the Techni - sparingly. He knows that that's why Vexen's let his hair grow so long, he knows that that's why Vexen is just a little quieter than normal, a little more reserved. But what does Vexen really dream about? The horrors in that so called academic facility, or perhaps... something else?

Vexen never wakes shaking like Larxene tells Marluxia that Naminé sometimes does; he never screams in his sleep - but maybe that's the extent of the damage that his broken life has done. What if he doesn't dream at all? What if he doesn't know the feeling, the fleeting images drifting in and out of his conscious mind? Marluxia knows the fuel of his literature - dreams. But what if Vexen somehow doesn't even dream?

Then there's a little something in the back of Marluxia's mind - maybe Vexen isn't screaming because it's not a screaming sort of dream? What if it's laced with desire, what if it's the kind of dream that one is disappointed to leave? What if it's the kind of dream that Marluxia has every other night about the man himself?

* * *

But oh, then _there_ are the dreams.

Vexen wakes up this morning and he wants to _scream_. He would were the walls not so thin, would he not stir the sleeping bodies in the apartment next door. But the dreams. _Leave me alone! _he wants to yell; he wants to demand with all the power his lungs contain why if God loved him he made his mind a twisted, devious one, and why if such things are condemned every dream is so _real_.

Last night Marluxia was a flush against Vexen's cheek, hair thrown back into a ponytail that Vexen hooked his fingers beneath, flowering pink hair in both of their eyes. Their lips met, their tongues played, their hands roamed slick with some dream liquid, and this wasn't a slowly corroding mattress in an unheated room, this was somewhere - _anywhere_ - a meadow, a fancy hotel room, the toilet block at school, and it didn't matter in the slightest. Because Marluxia moved, moaned a deep, guttural moan that still didn't quite fit his slight body, and effortlessly sent Vexen into shameful, perfect, curving release.

This morning Marluxia is a demon. Vexen can't shake the images, the images he knows he'd miss but wishes for the sake of God would never be there. He stands, shakily, splashes his face with water at the sink. The shower upstairs is a trek. Every inch of water is another burden on his heavy shoulders, and when he returns in just a towel, the morning too young to host another waking soul, he ought to have known that he would find Marluxia lingering in his doorway for a hug like Vexen _isn't _practically naked, and the boy is a demon. But Vexen can't help gingerly brushing his hands against Marluxia's body because he doesn't even care, even if it's wrong, even if God will condemn him for eternity when he dies.

Tonight he prays until his eyes slide closed, and then he dreams.

* * *

But _oh_, then there are the _dreams_.

Marluxia considers himself a normal dreamer - he dreams occasionally but not frequently, he remembers most of his dreams but not _all_ of them. Most of his dreams are sexual. Hell, most of his_ life _is sexual. He likes it that way; what kind of lucky bastard must he be to actually earn money doing what he does best and enjoys most?

But, well, there's _Vexen_. Vexen sort of fucked everything up, _ahaha_, and not like Marluxia wants. But _Sweet Jesus Christ_, Vexen is a hot nerd, and it only takes a few nights of dreams like pure, hardcore _porn_ for Marluxia to know that he'd give up anything to screw Vexen and actually _remember_ it this time.

So, well, nobody approves but since when did anybody approve of anything that Marluxia did? It's a kind of lovely when Vexen shyly takes his hand at the railway station, when the kisses never lead to sex. When - _and oh, this part's the best_ - they sleep in the same room and when Marluxia wakes up Vexen is blushing furiously. He asks why; the only thing he can do in response is laugh and sweetly inform Vexen that, _actually_, they were doing it up against the counter in the kitchen. And Vexen was topping. _Feverishly_.

Yeah, sex with Vexen would be like, the hottest thing _ever_, but hell. The dreams are_ almost_ as good.

* * *

But oh, then there are the dreams.

The dreams are the things that rescue Vexen, time and time again. Sometimes, sitting in Larxene's bed with Marluxia's wet all over him, Vexen wonders if there is any point to his life other than hot, gay sex and playing doctor when one of those two crass fuckers gets ill again. Sometimes Vexen wonders how he ended up sharing two people's rent three-way in return for a real pain in the ass every other evening, but the dreams pull him through.

Marluxia's snoring. As usual. The lazy bastard _always _falls asleep first, leaving Vexen to wriggle and shift and try - and fail - to shut him up with a pillow. A few times he's even kicked Marluxia out of the bed and not woken him up. But when Vexen does eventually sleep, the dreams - memories, recollections, hopes, fears, _Marluxia_ - make him realise that in this imperfect world, where every day is a chore, he could have it a lot, lot worse.

* * *

But oh, then there are the _dreams_.

Marluxia's cuffed. He knows all too well the sensation of muscles locked in a straight jacket, but tonight he's only cuffed, shifting uncomfortably in his own urine as he waits out in a dirty white room with a padded floor and matching walls, for something - anything - to happen. He's gone insane and he's painfully, acutely aware of it. Every second ticks by like another piece of his body and soul dying. Flighty visions of Vexen pass across the one-way mirror but he knows it's just security officers, and if he opens his mouth to scream they'll tranquillise him again. Nobody will give him the only thing he wants, the thing that could set him right again and make sense of a cruel world that Marluxia himself created.

Marluxia often wakes up at three, three thirty in the morning when he could have sworn that he hadn't slept all night for fear of never waking up again. He's always sweating, almost always screaming, and sometimes even once the screams are as dead as he feels, sobs rack his body and his mind is tattered and broken. Everything is broken. Everything is blood, everywhere,_ blood_. Nothing. _Nothing_, everything, nobody makes any move to catch him as he falls and twenty minutes later he's still steadily rocking, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and-

* * *

But oh, then there are the dreams.

I don't sleep much any more; there simply isn't time. It's bitterly hostile - early February - and all our blankets have been spread among those who need them most. There's always a rustle of alertness in the however-many-thousand people collected in Trafalgar Square. Everybody is too busy, too sick, or too scared to let their eyes close on the crowd and guns. The military are lining the streets, on standby twenty-four seven ready to shoot us down at the Government's order. It's a case of sitting tight through the snow and mounting cases of frostbite waiting for the call or surrender. People are dying, still, and caring for the injured has become Marluxia's highest priority. All those who are able bodied help: but what we really need is medical supplies. It's not safe to leave the crowd any more, even for humans - there's already been word of a couple arrested in a Pharmacist as they tried to obtain bandages for the bullet holes. Resources are spreading thin. It feels like a nightmare.

But there are _still _the dreams. Not the distorted, canted dreams of the sleeping - not these ones. These are the dreams keeping us alive even through processions to the river, down to the remains of the old Thames Barrier before its defences broke for a final time. These are the dreams that keep our feet trudging through the slush, a hundred living to every deceased, as another body floats out to sea and is pulled down by the current. I keep a list of names and a tally of the ones who died before their lips could part. I know nothing about them as I watch the sun fall below the turbulent horizon on the third day. There's but one thing that we share - the dream that could kill us all, the dream that could one day become reality for the Marked. The dream that has a name - _freedom_.

* * *

But oh, _then_ there are the dreams.

Sleeping on a sofa isn't exactly comfortable, but as much as Marluxia would love to crawl into the only bed in the house, that _very _definitely isn't an option. Vexen is looking better, though, three weeks in - his weight is increasing, however slowly, and he's starting to gain a little colour in his cheeks, a little shine in his dull and brilliant eyes.

Marluxia reads, most of the time. It pulls him through the nights, plucking words from the pages to stop him thinking about the man lying just over the corridor. He's already ploughed through his own collection, and Vexen's shelf of homosexual novels is now well familiarised with his bookmark. He's moved onto the crime books now - there are a lot of them. Marluxia tentatively followed Vexen into the book room once, and nearly a whole wall was dedicated to that genre alone. If things go on like this, Marluxia has realised that he'll even have to start on the Sci-Fi books before he's gone. They're brooding on the other wall, a mob greater even than the crime books, waiting for Marluxia to break and reach over to pick up the first in a multitude of series. _Discworld_. Vexen highly recommends it when he lowers himself to speak to Marluxia.

But eventually even Marluxia has to grudgingly slot his well-loved bookmark against the spine of this novel - _Sherlock Holmes_, now that, he'd never have expected to read - and set it down on the coffee table, tucking himself under the spare duvet that at first Marluxia thought smelled a bit odd but eventually realised smells of Vexen and flicking off the lamp light. Approximately half an hour later, there's the dreams. Not every night, but they're definitely there, and there's Vexen with predictable reliability. The subject varies; sometimes it's the aquarium that Marluxia's secretly glad he dragged Vexen to, sometimes it's just another day at school, sometimes it's - oh, _God _- sometimes it's that boy that Vexen talks about occasionally, the one with pain in his eyes and slits across his wrists. Sometimes he's fifteen again, being moronic, and sometimes he's fifteen and one of those Vexen types, sensible enough to be bullied for it. But Vexen's always there, in the limelight or in the background, in his classroom or in his car or in his _bed_.

Sometimes, to Marluxia, it hurts. Knowing that that's never going to happen - Vexen's straight, Vexen had a girlfriend, Vexen absolutely hates him. But sometimes it's nice to pretend, nice to think that when Vexen wanders into the kitchen one morning with two buttons undone it's not because he was up far too late last night watching Star Trek reruns, it's because he's slowly opening up to Marluxia, and the dreams are paying off.

_But oh, then there are the dreams._

_

* * *

_

Thoughts into the relevance of dreams in a number of mine and SushiBee's fanfictions.I considered a reward for whoever could guess all of them, but that would only be her, so they are in order: _Blackbird_, _Le Roi Est Mort, Vive Le Roi_, _Shadows_ (Sushi's), _Blondes_, "The Steampunk AU" (Sushi's), _Stereotypes and Misconceptions, Perfect_, _The Daily Grind_ (Sushi's), _Problematic_, _The Unwanted_, and our RP.


	20. 039 Grace

**039 - Grace**

_I could be brown, I could be blue, I could be violet sky..._

"You look wrong."  
Marluxia found make up one morning, in a box he'd been relentlessly sorting for lack of anything else to do, and he'd been practising. Hot pink, he liked. Nail varnish did nothing to corrode his artificial skin, and a thick rim around his eyes, he thought, seemed gaudily alluring. He liked the darkest foundation, added it to the sides of his cheeks for a little more human depth on his face. Blue mascara was pretty, too. Everything was pretty, but together it looked mismatched on a face not made for powdering. Every time he wiped the mask clean, blinked lilac eyeliner from his camera-lens eyes, for fear of being seen.

_I could be hurtful, I could be purple, I could be anything you like_

Marluxia screamed, once.  
Just once, in the first few months of testing the limits of his body. How loud could he be, anyway? It... it had not been a good idea. He'd come running to find Marluxia rubbing his throat a little in awe, and the amiable smile on his lips soon twitched downwards. Curiosity was not rewarded. He learned that quickly, with a stinging, jerky arm and ever stronger the desire to please his impossible master.

_Gotta be green, Gotta be mean, Gotta be everything more_

Marluxia did not understand jealousy. He could not name a human emotion at all - because copper wires and electrical charges were so different to synapses and hormonal impulses - but he did know that inside him there were things that controlled him, things that led him to believe that rushing upstairs to fend off the delivery man was a good idea, things that had him curling up next to the plug socket wanting to pour water from his eyes after another painful disciplining.

_Why don't you like me? Why don't you like me? Why don't you walk out the door?_

Standing on the doorstep was scary.  
Marluxia thought he'd leave, with nought but all the extension cables he needed, but something stopped him every time he tried. What about the baby? He couldn't leave the baby to the cruel whims of the brilliant scientists who gave and ruined his life. Where would he go? This world was no place for synthesised hybrids, and anyway he was needed here, wasn't he? With the family he was child and brother to, really, really?

_Say what you want to satisfy yourself_

Sometimes Marluxia wondered if his thoughts really belonged to him, or if he'd just been programmed to be this way, to stop him leaving the villa for reasoning that couldn't make sense.

_But you only want what everybody else says you should want._

_

* * *

_

I was going to leave this particular idea to 045 but this sort of popped out. It won't make any sense; it might after 045. The italics are lyrics from the song Grace Kelly by Mika._  
_


	21. 041 Experience

**041 - Experience**

When Vexen met Marluxia, his life changed completely.

Tonight Marluxia's hands were explorers; one palm was pressed flat against the tall blonde's shoulder blade, the fingers of the other resting lax between Vexen's waistband and the taught skin of his lower stomach. Marluxia himself was propped up against Vexen's side, nose shielded neatly in the crook of his neck, and one knee pressed between Vexen's leg. In the darkness of the night, Vexen could hear and feel each warm breath as Marluxia slept, softly and peacefully. He could be a child the way he'd sometimes snuffle and shift, or mumble nonsense into Vexen's hair.

Vexen was not accustomed to sleeping with other people and for the first week or so after actually moving into bed with Marluxia he'd felt tense and awkward, like any slight movement would disturb the younger man. He was lucky, though; Marluxia slept like a pig. Vexen accidentally kicked him out of the bed once and Marluxia had even slept through his attempts to pull the shorter - but unfortunately heavier - man back onto the mattress. Vexen had failed and felt so terrible that he'd slept on the floor with his boyfriend. When Marluxia had woken up in the morning, tangled in limbs and the duvet, he'd just laughed so sweetly that Vexen found it hard to believe that this man made a living out of being fucked senseless on camera.

There were moments, Vexen thought, when Marluxia didn't _seem_ like a porn star. He ate toast for breakfast just like any normal person. His wide-eyed wonder at anything he couldn't explain was identical to that of a young child. He was flawed and human and optimistically naive, and sometimes Vexen could fathom no correlation between the Marluxia that slept in this bed and the Marluxia that moaned and screamed for the masturbators sitting at their computer screens or the Marluxia that adorned the walls of this room with half-lidded eyes and few clothes on if any at all.

But there were other times when Marluxia's profession shone through - quite a _few_ times, actually. Like Marluxia's startling ability to go from fully clothed to naked in less than ten seconds, or Marluxia's guilty habit of cracking crass innuendos every other sentence. Some things weren't really so noticeable - Vexen wouldn't have picked them up if he didn't know - like the way Marluxia kissed, open and wet as though for the benefit of some third party and not his own personal satisfaction. That had changed over time, Vexen had noted thoughtfully. Five months in, Marluxia's kisses had become more intimate, and not just because the two of them were growing closer. It was... nice.

There were certain things that Vexen had never even dreamed of that Marluxia introduced him to, as well. Toys. Vexen found them one afternoon hoovering Marluxia's room (because _somebody _had to do it), and out of curiosity he'd tugged a plastic box out from under the bed to find it stuffed with... things... Marluxia had cheerfully offered a demonstration with painfully blunt explanations to a few of the objects that Vexen didn't recognise, and Vexen had politely denied. He seemed to have a very different view of that kind of thing to Marluxia, which was no wonder, really, but even if Marluxia was okay with shoving all manner of things up his arse Vexen wasn't sure if he wanted to watch.

But there were some things that Vexen wasn't allowed to escape. Like that time that Marluxia came home brandishing a tube of something and grinning, turning all the lights out and cheerfully introducing Vexen to the wonders of Glow In The Dark Lube. There wasn't any sex involved, because Vexen still didn't feel ready for that, but there was quite a lot of naked and floating, glowing hand prints and writing messages on each other's chests, and loathe as he was to admit it Vexen had sort of enjoyed the spontaneous intimacy. Not to mention the memory of Marluxia wonkily writing a cheerful "Fuck me" on his own belly. Vexen didn't.

There was also the Gray Rabbit, whose regulars normally didn't bother with the R. After a few weeks of pretending to be too tired or too disinterested to join Marluxia every Friday and Saturday (and sometimes every other day of the week, too), Marluxia had dragged Vexen down in a smart enough shirt and jeans with the rest of the gang - it still made Vexen blush knowing that Marluxia had had sex with every one of them, multiple times - to the local gay bar. Everybody knew them all and Vexen had felt ridiculously self concious as Marluxia introduced him to a hundred homosexual faces and a few rather disturbed looking straight ones who had been forced along by their friends. He'd actually squeaked when somebody groped him and hadn't been able to resist the urge to hide his head in his hands as Marluxia fended the drunken punter away with a few threats about heads and arses that Vexen was sure nobody wanted to contemplate the logistics of. He'd been pretty scared by everything that night, even if the bartender was sympathetic. He'd offered Vexen a few words of friendly advice about Marluxia, namely Marluxia and drinking and sex, which the blonde wasn't sure if he was relieved or disturbed by.

Another new experience, aside from all the places that Marluxia deemed appropriate to lick, was actually visiting the man at work. After some internal debate, Vexen had decided that hell, Marluxia would never survive celibacy and the last thing Vexen wanted was the man fapping himself to death or getting caught trying to hump a stranger. So it was a bit strange having a boyfriend who had more sex with other people than him, but Vexen brushed that aside because it kept Marluxia happy and Vexen unpressured. Not that Vexen could fight the curiosity of Googling Marluxia's name one day, and after he turned off safe search he suddenly found out more about Marluxia's private anatomy than he was really sure he wanted to. It was gorgeous, of course - hell, Marluxia worked in porn for a reason - but it was a disturbing kind of creepy to see it on the internet. That was, however, nothing compared to the creepy kind of disturbing that was seeing it in real life. Vexen'd had the afternoon off work - carbon monoxide spill - so he thought it would be a good idea to pick Marluxia up. And... needless to say Vexen had never experienced such surrealism as watching his boyfriend being filmed with three other people and doing things that Vexen would certainly never dream of being involved in. Marluxia was apologetic - apparently that was unusually hardcore - and gave Vexen plenty of naked kisses in return. Vexen didn't really want those kinds of stains on his suit, but Marluxia knew a way to get everything out. And then there was a tour of the studio and more sex than Vexen had ever witnessed in his life.

And suddenly Vexen was experiencing naked cuddling, groping in public, kisses in the rain, watching porn with the star right beside him, hair straighteners, gay bars, tight leather underwear, make up, drag queens, homoerotica, getting distracted trying to bake a cake, sharing showers, sharing beds, shaving leg hair, tips on how to give the perfect blow job, free wi-fi at Starbucks, Marluxia getting stuck at work because they lost the key to the handcuffs, alcohol, dancing, more naked cuddling, sun bathing, fighting over the duvet, brewing the right coffee at six o'clock in the morning and sex.

Oh, sweet, glorious, perfect, painful messy intimate wonderful _sex_. It was an idle Friday evening sometime in May when the sun was still clinging to the horizon, when Vexen found his back to Marluxia's pink mattress with two hands either side of his chest. It was that moment, looking into crystalline clear blue eyes, that Vexen suddenly realised that it was time. His whole body shivered and yearned for exposure, and Marluxia knew with the pop of a neat row of buttons and a tongue to follow. Vexen felt torn between keeping his eyes locked on the every slight movement of the other man, or pressing his head back into the frilled-pillow with his eyes clenched shut to let the feelings wash over his body. Eventually his decision was made for him with well manicured hands finding his arms, leading them upwards onto an already naked back.

"Come on. It's no fun if I'm the only one going at it."

And Vexen knew that Marluxia knew too, that this was the time and this was _it_, and dimly he wondered if Marluxia with a life full of the mad sha-bang of sex knew just how much this meant to him. It seemed, as a kiss-lick led to Vexen's lips and two stomachs brushed, ever so softly, against each other, like he did.

Here, now, knowing by some instinct that he didn't realise he possessed that raising his knees just so was the right thing to do, Vexen would gaze into Marluxia's eyes and think that maybe even if his whole life was barriers against people like this, and Marluxia's whole life was barriers against people like him, they were somehow like yin and yang always supposed to be together. And when Marluxia laughed that there ought to be a remote control in the bedroom to fill up the bath ready for after-sex, Vexen knew that he very certainly hoped so.

* * *

From my old fanfic Perfect, again, where Marluxia's a porn star and Vexen's a prude. A few things in here I've been wanting to write for quite a while XDD


	22. 043 Ladies

**043 - Ladies**

Marluxia liked ladies. Marluxia liked ladies a _lot_. What wasn't to love? They had perfect, flawless beauty of both body and spirit (most of them), they had brilliant minds (some of them), they had voices like the songs of angels (a few of them), and even if they were entirely lacking, there was always _something_ that Marluxia could find to love in a woman. A lot of people called him gay, pertaining to his hair colour and rather emotional demeanour, but he honestly didn't understand that. Lesbians - now lesbians, he understood. His best friend was a lesbian and they could talk until the sun itself fell to slumber about the wonderful charms of a woman. But, while he could occasionally see the attraction of a particularly stunning man, he did not understand gay men. He respected them, of course. But he didn't understand. _Ladies_. Who could possibly not love ladies?

_This_ girl, a few years younger and just out of college, was slim and pale with baby blue eyes and a gorgeous restrained smile. Her body was petite, her breasts mere mounds of fat - but they fitted so nicely into Marluxia's hands like her whole body would lay heavily in his arms, and her lips, small and thin, were smooth and perfect and tasted of strawberry. These, Marluxia could kiss for hours, ever so gently because this girl was a delicate wallflower who was not for bending or breaking, but cuddling up on the sofa for a romantic comedy or taking out to the park on a warm summer's afternoon for an ice cream shared.

This girl was a beautiful little thing and Marluxia loved her dearly, but her tiny hands fitted in better with this short blonde boy. What this girl really needed was a kindred spirit, another shy little soul to hold and cherish through the sleepy night.

_This _woman was even taller than Marluxia and had curves like a fertility goddess. She was older by a few months, a university graduate, with eyes that blazed green with an intimidating intensity, and long blonde hair that was just perfect for Marluxia to run his fingers through. She was one of those geniuses lost in another world of mathematics and quantum physics, and Marluxia would find himself listening for hours on end in the morning and the night on a subject he knew he'd never understand. This woman was a special kind of strange. She could be as physical as Marluxia - in the bed, in the shower, on the kitchen table, _anywhere_ would do fine when she was in the mood. And sometimes all she wanted was somebody to rant to.

This woman was amazing and gorgeous, and Marluxia truly enjoyed her curious company, but her slender fingers were happier curled around the palm of this bespectacled man. She needed someone with a brain to comprehend every intelligent word she uttered, somebody just like her with the same mad, unpredictable insanity.

_This _miss was a ferocious one. Small of stature, Marluxia picked her up in the rain somewhere and within minutes had felt the sting of her rugged nails. Her body was shapeless but no less touchable, her flat chest smooth as silk, he chapped lips primed with insatiable, needy passion. As unpredictable as the mad genius, this one would wake Marluxia in the night just to scream nonsense in his ear, would wait on the doorstep in shorts and a t shirt waiting for him to come home from work, even if her jet black hair would soak right through to her skull. It was an odd sort of victory when her tense, wiry muscles would relax against his chest, when on occasional nights she would sleep softly. She didn't smile often, sulky by nature, and when she did it was rewarding, and Marluxia loved her.

This miss had the fire that could melt Marluxia's heart in a single beat, but it burned it, too. She fell apart and in the end all Marluxia could do was let her go. Her hands locked better against this man's shoulders, as they carried her away to the hospital and people who had the time to look after her better than Marluxia could.

_This_ lady was a real girlfriend. She was young and energetic, the kind who loved to play dress up in high heels and skirts and make up, and with every outfit, Marluxia couldn't love her perfect body more. It had just the right amount of curve for Marluxia to roll his fingers across, down the crevice of her breastbone, the roll of a stomach, hips to hold and warm skin to kiss. With this lady, he moved gently and held close, this lady he laughed with on shopping sprees. This lady he loved to spoil, to toy with her shock of red hair, this lady he'd chase along the beach until they collapsed on the sand to kiss before the tide flowed in.

This lady was full of life, and Marluxia may have been young but not quite young enough, because this bubbly boy's hand was the best one for her to clench as they ran out into the sunset. She needed his exuberance, and Marluxia still smiled when he sees them laugh together here and there, a perfect match spilling with life and love.

_This _woman had the grace of a dancer and the soul of a swan. Marluxia fell for her like a deer bounding straight into the jaws of a preying wolf. Their romance was brief, but what it was was powerful. She was as dangerous as she was beautiful, and Marluxia found himself driving straight from work just to watch her train, to test her limits in the bedroom just to see those toned muscles flex along her agile body.

This woman was truly physical perfection, for whom a sports bra really _was_ necessary and a spray tan really _wasn't_, but Marluxia soon realised that he simply wasn't the one. Her hand longed to feel the nick of that best friend's back, her kisses made for the one with brunette hair that hadn't been dyed effeminately pink. Marluxia gave her away. She was the one - but not_ his_ one.

But_ this_ lady, Marluxia held closer than all the others. Skinny, scarred and imperfect, this lady was the best of every woman that he'd kissed, carried, cuddled or fucked. She had all the ferocity of_ that_ miss, and all the elegance and strength of_ that _woman. This lady Marluxia knew and loved inside out, every time he grabbed her from behind, hit her in the face with a pillow, let her see him naked because she didn't care. The two of them went back years to before Marluxia really knew what a lady was, and she understood that all the other girls liked boys. Theirs was a friendship that lasted every tragedy, grew stronger with every triumph.

Naminé's more comfortable with the introverted boy Roxas; Evenne is far better suited to Xehanort's geekish charm. Xion _needs_ Riku's strong arms and tireless patience to hold her through the nightmares and Kairi's married to Sora now, with toddlers that laugh and play just as they do. And Aqua's found lifelong love in Terra's hold, doing together what they've always done best.

And Marluxia knows that, in a few months or so, he'll find another girlfriend and so will Larxene, but right now when they have nobody else to hold to it's each other they know is the one they'll keep, close in the side of their heart that's for friends, not lovers. And as Larxene shifts against Marluxia's larger body, fists curled loosely in his pyjamas, there couldn't be a more down-to-earth ethereally perfect woman to spend his life with, even if all they'll ever be is friends.

* * *

Sorry for the het. If you don't like it, just skip this prompt. I feel like I've disappointed you because there's so much opportunity for lesbians in "ladies".

1211 is one of my favourite pairings in Kingdom Hearts, even if I don't write it often, and weirdly enough after I decided what to write for this it's the only pairing that didn't come up. And now I want to write more about all the others.


	23. 045 Transformation

**045 - Transformation**

_"Autobots, transform and roll out!"_

How long had it been since Prowl had had the pleasure of being partnered with a Bot he actually enjoyed working with? Not to call his Earth companions incompetent, but quite a long time. Prowl was what the humans would call a "lone wolf"; the thoughtful, silent kind with a fierce blade that required stealth that nobody else here seemed to possess. He simply preferred the quiet rustle of nature or the comforting silence of night, to boisterous laughter or manic adventures.

Which was odd, because if Jazz was anything, he was the polar opposite to every principle that Prowl held dear.

A motorbike with no rider and an empty car; if the citizens of Detroit were not accustomed to the lethal flash of black and gold paintwork it would have been an odd sight indeed. Jazz was new, but then again when Jazz was around, _everything_ seemed to be new.

A "sweet ride". Jazz certainly was; his taste in human automobiles was far more sleekly stylish than the veritable monster truck that that oaf with an oversized ego Sentinel Prime had chosen, or the harmlessly blocky vehicle modes of Prowl's everyday colleagues. Jazz was all powerful curves and dynamic contrast that, transformed or not, Prowl could always appreciate the aesthetics of. Aerodynamics, too. Optimus Prime, to name a perfect example, was not. Jazz along the motorway had the fluidity of one of those aquatic organics that Prowl loved to study. He was easily, in Prowl's humble opinion, the smoothest ride of any Autobot.

But a lot of it was the easygoing attitude, Prowl had to admit as the other Bot transformed without slowing into a run and he did the same. A lot of people - human and machine - were a little uptight and wary of the motorbike bot, but Jazz had waltzed straight up to him with a grin and an outstretched hand, and from that day onwards they couldn't have been better friends.

So Prowl was more than content to follow Jazz left at the intersection and down a deserted alleyway for whatever need there was to chase down some pretty criminal and return the lion's share of a million dollars, cash.

"You know," Jazz said as they stopped to assess the situation, "I'd say that the others can handle this... dig?"

Digging, when it came to Jazz, was something that Prowl was very good at.

"It's been a while."

Jazz laughed the way he always did back at the Corps, and there clear as day was the brush of metal to metal, the almost silence of any moving machine in the half darkness, the locking of digits and the ever-pulsing beat of two Sparks joined in one.

* * *

I know, I know, I said I'd do robot!Marluxia for 045, but I've been on such a Transformers high; I just couldn't help it.

Jazz and Prowl from the Transformers Animated continuity. Excuse any bad characterisation, I've seen about one episode of Jazz (and I can still tell that he and Prowl are totally more than just friends).

GAY ROBOTS. Woooo~


	24. 047 Robbery

**047 - Robbery**

The train stopped a few yards short, thank the Lord, because tied to the tracks was a rather attractive young damsel in distress and, Braig laughed to himself, it would be rather a pity if she were to get crushed by the steamer's roaring wheels. Gesturing to his companion, a scrap of a boy with scraped knees and bony elbows, Braig drew his tattered red scarf above his nose and slunk to the next rock over. People were disembarking. Any minute now Nami would be untied and scarper or be doted upon; they'd meet up in the next town over. And Braig and Myde would have a good half an hour to strip the train before she'd be ready to roll again. This, with just one security guard seen boarding the train, would be a cinch and Braig knew it well. He didn't have a reputation for being the best Highwayman in the West for nothing.

A few precious moments later, for perfect timing, Braig spurred his horse on up to the assembled crowd. Myde followed behind on a smaller horse. He was sweating already in the hot summer sun. New. The old boy had... uh... been mislaid somewhere a few hold ups back.

Braig had supposed that he'd retire - he had enough money, after all - but it was the adrenaline, the thrill of the hunt - so he knew he'd be thieving until he died. He'd picked Myde up in a bar a few towns back, a kid with adventure-lust and nothing to do. This was his first robbery, and Braid didn't need Even's eight-lensed magnifying spectacles to tell that he was scared shitless.

Braig was too experienced to fear the guard's bulky pistols, or the threat of handcuffs and prison bars. He didn't ever escape because he got lucky - he escaped because he knew how. Myde didn't, but Myde was a moronic young boy and light enough to drag out of harm's way.

Braig dismounted with dexterous ease and pulled out his revolvers the way he always did. These Dilan had made specially, smooth and streamlines and a perfect silky shot.

"Everybody with yer hands where I can see 'em!" He yelled. Myde, stumbling off his poor, bemused looking horse with an identical expression, jogged after him.

"Yeah!" He said eloquently, giving his victims a look that clearly said he hadn't a clue what he was doing. Somebody laughed - but Braig shut them up with a neatly aimed gun. Nami was still here, looking theatrically scared. Good. Always a man of opportunity, Braig grabbed her arm and pressed one revolver to the side of her head.

"I want all your money or the pretty lassie gets it! She's such a bonnie little thing but I'm sure none of you kind gentlemen and ladies wants to be seeing her brains, am I right?"

Right on cue, Nami let out a high pitched wail and began to sob. She was a brilliant actress, an orphan Braig had rescued from a raging storm some years back. Despite being a woman and a young one at that, she made herself useful so Braig had kept her. Boys came and went, but Nami had been his partner in crime for years.

So he pulled back the safety catch.

"No!"

Someone pulled from their pockets a collection of shiny coins and others followed. Myde was quick to squirrel it all away into his own pouches. Braid was vaguely reminded of a hamster.

Eventually, there was just one affluent couple left, hanging at the fringes of the train, who hadn't bothered to make a contribution. Braid trained his guns on them both.

"I don't see you trying to save the girly."

"We don't have any money!" The man protested weakly, the whites of his eyes bulbous as his gaze darted around his fellow travellers. He was lying. But Braig couldn't prove that without hassle, so he pulled a new trick out of his sleeve.

"Gimme yer clothes, then."

"What?"

"You heard me. Take 'em off. Right down to your frilly underthings."

When there was no immediate reaction, Braig elbowed Nami in the ribs. She screamed again.

"It's be such a shame for all these respectable men and women to have so kindly donated their money and I still blow this lassie's brains out 'cause you wouldn't take off yer clothes."

"You're an extortionist!"

The woman reluctantly plucked a heavy purse from her pocket, apparently the price to pay for dignity. It landed heavily in the dirt and instantly Myde was there, scurrying the sum away. Braig was tempted to up and run, but seeing their pampered faces flush red with fury was too fun, so instead he plastered on a thoughtful look.

"I thought I said yer clothes."

"Isn't that enough?"

Braig considered this with a grin.

"No."

He was tempted to get them naked, but in the end he settled for leaving them in their fancy undergarments and steering the snow terrified horses away into the rocky distance.

"So," Myde said as they settled around a camp fire, "Fifty-fifty?"

"Nami did more than you," Braig scoffed, gesturing to the timid girl who was busy sewing wearable clothes from the rich woman's pompous costume. "You gotta work to earn your keep."

Myde looked a little put out when Braig decided that all he got was fifteen per-cent - but only until he saw how much fifteen per-cent actually was.

"Woah. Those guys were loaded. I could live off this!"

Braig chuckled to himself as he divided the lion's share between himself and Nami. The kid would say that now, but money had a way of getting itself spent no matter how much you stole.


	25. 049 Love

**049 - Love**

Love, Even wrote one evening, is a curious thing. It both connects and separates us all. It is the driving force of this world, and yet it seems so weak against its opposite, hatred. Love cannot conquer nations of destroy walls, and yes, in small ways, it is the spark of every man's heart that gives him the power to do so himself.

Love, Myde laughed in the small hours of the morning, is a bitch. And then you die. We can't love be _right_, like, what's the word, requited? Nobody ever really loves the person who really loves them and that's stupid. If love's supposed to be so great then why does it always break your heart?

Love, Ienzo whispered one day, is a paradox. The perfect emotional oxymoron, a brilliant ruse that attracts and distracts. Akin to water, it is powerless and unstoppable; one ounce may amount to nothing and yet its force can forge valleys a hundred miles in breadth. It can be a nuisance, a hassle, and yet we cannot exist without it. Love is like water: it trickles, it rains, it pours. It damages and destroys and yet it also has the power to regenerate and revive.

Love, L'Enera screamed one idle afternoon, is a lie. Nobody loves. It's just an excuse to take without giving, like love is a currency and the richest people are the ones with broken hearts. People are selfish: L'Enera knows that. They only care about themselves and that's the way of life that L'Enera has come to accept. Love does not exist. Only pathological instincts and carnal desire.

Love, Lumaira moans one night, is you and me. Simple as. No questions asked. End of story. Love is what brought us together and love is what makes us stick. It's the glorious heat of a midsummer night's dream, it's the shy embrace of welcome romance. It's every tentative sweep of fingers and it's every lackadaisical afternoon peal of laughter. It makes up for every argument, pays back the debt of every physical and emotional wound. It's love and for you, babe, every moment is worth it.


	26. 051 Longer

**051 - Longer**

Oh, come _on_. That is /_so_ not fair. There's no way in hell that your cock's allowed to be bigger than mine. It's really nice, don't get me wrong, but... Well, actually. It is really nice. It's the sort of lollipop that you know will get you sticky but you put with sucking it just because it's so damn lovely.

Hah. I'm getting pretty good at these innuendos, aren't I? Almost as good as those ones we were coming up with last night watching Transformers. I adore that film, by the way. I really think that you should buy me the DVD for my birthday.

But where was I? Yes. Your... how do I put this? Your _lollipop_. It's the principle. I'm supposed to be the dominant one in this relationship and that means that _my_ penis ought to be bigger. Yes, I _know_ you're taller than I am, but I must weigh at least a third more than you, and I'm far stronger. I could sweep you off your feet any time I liked.

But no, it's you who has to take the crowning glory in the underpants department (speaking of, remember that time when we made out in Primark? Yeah, I know. Good times). It's not exactly an HFD like you get in porn, because that would be sort of scary, but you're at _least_ an inch longer than I am.

That means that _you_ can reach _at least an inch_ further into _me_ than I can into _you_.

But, all that being said. Don't let me discourage you. It really _is_ a very nice cock.

By that I mean come over here and fuck me, _right this instanc_e.

Oh, damn you.

_Please_.

* * *

I... I'll let you draw your own conclusions.


	27. 053 Jewel

**053 - Jewel**

Marluxia was one of those people who spangled.

Literally.

For the unromantic Vexen, his incessant glitter was, at first, the only way in which Marluxia shone, the light glinting from his wings and hair like a billion molecular mirrors. He just secreted the stuff left, right, centre and most often all over Vexen's clothes, face and personal belongings. It covered everything in his house now, a fine sheen of sparkling glitter forming handprints and wingprints and... other questionably shaped-prints. Vexen was sort of glad that he didn't really have any friends to invite around, because from the state of the furniture they'd probably end up walking home with a glittering bottom.

It was possible to remove - just about - but that was such a hassle that Vexen tended to leave it be during the week and clean it all out every Saturday with the rest of the dirt. He was teased incessantly for it at work, of course, because Xigbar was a moron who didn't know when to quite. Vexen had long since decided that he preferred him as a toad. But they all knew Marluxia anyway, so the gossip was less pertaining to the fact that Vexen was dating a prostitute, and more that the prostitute was dating_ Vexen_.

But in time, in falling through the floor and running through the rain, in dealing with Marluxia and dealing with Marluxia emotional, Vexen did begin to appreciate that maybe his wings weren't the only shiny thing about Marluxia. Well, his belly button did have a tendency to collect glitter, but that wasn't what Vexen meant. And it wasn't Marluxia's sparkly semen, either, which also happened to be the most disturbing bodily fluid that Vexen had ever seen. That was odd, because if the glitter was random discharge of magic, then did that mean that Marluxia technically had... magical spunk?

... Vexen tried not to think about that very much.

But no - there was something about Marluxia that really did shine, something that didn't have anything to do with his constant secretion of glitter. Vexen was sure that deep down underneath all the perversion and clingy nature, beneath the emotional wreckage of a faerie never really capable of anything that faeries were supposed to do, there was a jewel inside Marluxia that sparkled more earnestly than any cheap bodyshop imitation.

* * *

Based on an RP between my friend PaisleyPie and I, where Marluxia's a faerie prostitute and Vexen's British.


	28. 055 Payment

**055 - Payment**

You're nearly out of the door for the third time this week when Marluxia's there in the hallway, leaning on the doorframe to his room. This is the second time you've nearly been caught and usually you'd be quick to slip away, but your body is aching and your heart is dead so when Marluxia speaks, you find your hand frozen halfway up to the door handle.

_Where do you think you're going?_

The hotpants are a little loose around your legs, actually, but you dared not alter the shape for comfort or style. Larxene's straighteners you stole for the tiny curls always forming at the fringes of your face, and it's her make up that's suffocating and masking you. You've got a coat but your legs are still bared and naked. You're quick to take shelter in the gloom.

_Just going for a walk._

_At midnight?_

_Can't sleep._

_You never sleep any more._

Your knuckles tighten around the door handle and everything swims. You wonder where you've disappeared off to in a night where sanity sleeps and you're the one skulking around in shadows waiting for a call.

_What's that supposed to mean?_

Marluxia steps forwards and your muscles curl as though you could somehow make yourself smaller, or cease to exist entirely.

_How much do you charge?_

The question is far, far too personal and you are quick to leave the skin-deep warmth of the house. You'd run, but your muscles are still tight from two nights ago, and the air is so thick it's like treacle. When Marluxia catches your arm you twist, but he's too strong to let you go.

Your dying eyes meet his.

_Why?_

_Let me go._

You struggle but he's stronger and you're caught between a rock and a hard place, and he pulls you easily back into the light, bared.

_Is this what you've reduced yourself to?_

_Just leave me alone._

_You can't avoid my questions forever. Don't think I don't know where you've been going._

You think you can, and you prise his fingers from your chilled skin to head again for the door. You don't want to go, you never want to go, but you've still got twenty left to make up the rent and if you're lucky you can get that tonight and take the weekend off.

_How much do they pay you?_

Marluxia catches you by the wrist this time, and you can't meet his eyes again. His fingers find your chin, force you to look.

_Why?_

You don't know. You honestly don't know.

_What happened to him?_

For a split second you don't understand what Marluxia means but then realisation dawns. You bark a laugh, because it's too ironic, too ridiculous, too much hurt and nothing worth another night in somebody else's bed for a handful of petty cash. So you laugh until your ribs collapse and water traces grooves in your pretend face.

_He's been dead for a long time._

Marluxia catches you when your legs snap in half; when everything breaks he's the only thing keeping you from falling apart.

_How much?_

You tear yourself away. The night is old, your determination and hopeless denial lost. It would have hurt like hell and it always does. Better to wait another night and search again on Saturday. You stumble up the stairs, slam the door shut and wait in cowering silence for tomorrow to arrive. Instead it's Marluxia, petulant and pestilent, by the door.

_How much do I have to pay to keep you off the streets tonight?_

You curl.

_Twenty?_

Something lands weightlessly by your heaving chest and it takes you a second to realise that it's a note, a twenty pound note with the Queen's own face expressionlessly mocking you.

_Fifty?_

More bills land around you.

_A hundred?_

Marluxia's voice is rising. Not in anger or disdain that you've grown to accept with weary submission. It sounds like... desperation.

_A thousand? Two thousand? I can pay._

You gather the energy to roll over, still in your old cagoule and little else, to give the other man a blank stare like you left your heart to freeze in the rain and the man lying amongst more money than you've ever owned is nothing more than a toy.

_I don't want your charity._

Marluxia, usually so elegant, stomps over. He points an accusing finger and yells, loud enough to close the last beating fibres in your chest.

_You'd rather lower yourself to this?_

He seems to catch himself, shoulders dropping and a tender hand brushing across your fragmented cheek.

_Oh, Vexen._

You broke and age ago and all that's left it a hollow, clattering carcass. But that still seems like enough for Marluxia to shift around the softly crumpling twenty pound notes and find you underneath ruined mascara and too-tight clothes. And it's you he kisses, without haste or fury, until the steady thrum of your mind is drowned out by your heartbeat's pulse against the very man who broke you in.

_Vexen, Vexen, Vexen._

And he breaks you again, into his arms; if anything is right it isn't here. But what is here is Marluxia, and even if his tight embrace is the last thing you want, you need _somebody_ - and Marluxia for all your failings is somebody, so your fists clench in his shirt until the sun spangles and you feel alive.

* * *

Curiously enough, part of an extrapolation of the Blondes-verse, where Vexen became a prostitute and Marluxia threw money at him. I've long since decided against it for the final story, but it made a nice idea for this prompt. "_The sun spangles and you feel alive_" is a quote from the poem _November _by Simon Armitage.


	29. 057 God

**057 - God**

Some people called it playing God, when scientists made the first biotechnological hybrid machine.

But then again, they'd said that about prosthetic organs and now you'd never find a citizen over sixty without a lung or liver made by man. But hybrids caused a storm because they weren't just prolonging life - they were manipulating it. Even if the processing core was still an unthinking machine, the shells - people said - were life, and to have a living shell at the will of a robot was wrong. So the project was shuffled away, assigned to the few dedicated scientists who still cared for mankind or lusted for knowledge, back to the secret laboratories beneath the international eye and there for many years it stayed.

The birth of Experiment 2747-114 was not celebrated. A simple combination of human grey matter and the latest auto-recovering computer devices, it was never heralded as a new advancement of human technology, just another test tube robot with no purpose other than academia. There it lay, past the media scandal and the arrest of the scientists charged with unethical conduct. And there it waited, its programming slowly reshuffling, its cells gently reproducing, its fusion of DNA and binary code evolving together as it lay in stasis for year after year after year.

* * *

Marluxia Starscream knew that he had been created on an approximately two point four nine percent chance. He knew that his parents, two respectable scientists, were so unlikely to bear their own child that they had instead synthesised one from hydraulic prosthetics and flawless, artificial latex skin. He knew that every central processing function in his mind had been programmed by them; by that he could only conclude that they would have made him perfect for their means.

Some people would have called it playing God; but Marluxia wasn't a life. He was just a robot and he knew that well. Everything he did he was programmed to do by his creators. His entire life had already been mapped out by his internal circuitry and would never change. This gave him a cheery outlook on life; if he had been programmed to act the way that he did then he couldn't take a step wrong. His perfect parents had created him the way they wanted him so Marluxia knew to be just that - himself.

It took mere months to shatter _those_ illusions.

Marluxia easily shrugged off the first few mistakes - how was he supposed to know that "Pour me a glass of wine" didn't mean throwing a bottle of the red liquid at the window pane? How could he be punished for chasing away the postman if nobody had told him that he wasn't a threat to the household? He learned quickly, soon adapting to his new environment. But, he thought one night as he plugged himself into the mains to recharge, everything was so complicated. No sooner had he realised that to successfully vacuum a room the cleaner had to be turned on, he'd had an accident with the bleach or the washing machine or couldn't work out how to operate a peg to hang out the laundry. Why, if he had been build for this exact purpose, could he not even complete the simplest of tasks? He was learning, of course, but progress was slow and though his body may have been fully grown, Marluxia was still only a child.

Sometimes when his mother was in a good mood and Marluxia correctly completed a task, she would smile. It was the smile that made Marluxia feel as though everything was going to be okay once he'd mastered every art in the house. He didn't have to be a failure like his father sometimes told him he was: one day once his education was done, he'd be the perfect child that the scientists always dreamed of having. He'd make his mother smile every day, and his father would never have to lose his temper again for some fool's error. Just imagining this future reality made Marluxia's chest, empty and heartless, swell with pride. He, a lowly robot, would be worthy to call himself their son. It was... It was all he ever wanted.

* * *

Marluxia was nearly a year old when there came brilliant news.

His mother, one of his very own creators, was to have another child. An organic; a real human being with thoughts and emotions and a heart that would beat solidly until the day it died. Sometimes Marluxia dreamed he could think for himself, but he dismissed the idea as ludicrous. He was simply programmed to believe that he was sentient. Whatever emotions he thought were controlling his processor were simply an illusion to be brushed aside, however strong. But to have a brother - and to have the chance to help his brother to grow and develop his life into something amazing - Marluxia couldn't deny the pride and honour that filled his every waking process.

He first discovered the news by accident: he'd been cleaning up the last of a fallen pot-plant in the hall when he'd overheard his creators talking in the next room. He pieced the fragments of conversation together - she was bearing a child. Against all odds, she was going to have another perfect creation to nurture and Marluxia was determined to help her. He wondered if, a few weeks later when they'd not told him to his face, they might be wanting to surprise him. Unwilling to inadvertently fool them, he approached his mother about it that evening.

"Mother. I know."

She didn't seem pleased, but Marluxia found that understandable if she wanted to break the news to him herself. So he carefully stood before her, his signature smile plastered onto his face.

"About my brother. I overheard you talking about it the other night with father. It's a miracle, isn't it? First me and now an organic child. You really are brilliant scientists."

She'd sighed, and picked up what Marluxia had soon learned was a remote from the side table and pressing a button.

"I'm trying to watch television."

He quickly skittered out of the way.

"Oh, yes. Of course. Sorry. But I just wanted you to know that I'm so excited about having a brother. Have you thought of any names yet? I could help you if you're stuck-"

She turned, giving him a withering glare to which he knew the appropriate answer was to recoil.

"Marluxia," She said carefully, returning after a moment to the television like she didn't want to look at his face, "He's not going to be your brother."

"Well, of course not biologically," Marluxia quickly established, "But-"

"Marluxia."

He realised he'd crossed a line somewhere, and even though he didn't know which of a million this was, he'd learned enough to recede and let his mother have her way.

"Sorry."

He waited for a moment for her to speak, but when she still hadn't fifty-four seconds later, he simply nodded to himself and skittered away. Well, it stood to reason that she probably wasn't in a good mood if he'd interrupted her. He wouldn't make that mistake again next time he wanted to talk to her. Television was a very important part of organic life, after all. That had been one of the first things that Marluxia had learned. He didn't really understand - he liked being active, spending what free time he had running around the garden until his batteries ran down, or studying the plants and flowers outside. Of course, all the machines in his parents' house were impressive in their immaculate creation, but it was the organic matter that fascinated Marluxia the most. The way things so beautiful, so symmetrical and perfect, could evolve simply by accident was truly mind-blowing. That he felt this way, Marluxia found a little strange - after all, he supposed that if he'd been creating an artificial form, he'd make it most impressed by man-made creations, and therefore hold higher regard for its creators - but his parents moved in mysterious ways and he knew that everything they'd done had been for a reason - so it was not his place to question their motives.

This was not always easy.

Marluxia clearly remembered the first time his father struck him for the rest of his life. He'd been cleaning the mantelpiece and accidentally dropped one of the smaller ornaments; the crash had alerted his father to the incident and in he'd come storming, voice raised in the manner that Marluxia knew he was programmed to fear the most. He soon forgot the words, but feeling a hand forcefully contact his latex skin was something that seemed to reverberate through his body forever. Shocked, his hands had shot to his cheek, already feeling where intricate wiring had come loose. He crumpled to the floor, howling. This seemed only to infuriate his father more, who lashed out again and again until Marluxia's consciousness centre shut down.

He woke at two hours, fifteen minutes and thirty-one seconds AM and hurried without thinking down to the uninhabited laboratory to fix his injuries. It took more stability than his shaking hands had to correctly solder each component and wire back into place, but three hours and several molten welts on his plasticky fingers, he was more or less back in working order and ready for a lot of catching up to do. His hydraulics still felt a little shaky, and his batteries weren't operating at one hundred percent, but he had neither the time or skills to fix himself. He'd have to ask his father later.

An appalling thought occurred to him twenty minutes into mopping the kitchen floor. What if his father had intentionally meant to implant those faults in his circuitry? What if he'd, by fixing himself, explicitly gone against his father's wishes?

The worry was too much to bear, even if it was a pre-programmed illusion, and after he was done curling in the middle of the kitchen floor, Marluxia knew that there was only one person he could turn to - his heavily pregnant mother. She'd been acting oddly for the past few months but Marluxia knew it was merely the hormones acting on her body preparing her for birth, so he braved himself and slipped into her bedroom door. She slept in the spare room, now, away from Marluxia's father. It afforded her more rest. She rested a lot these days.

"M-mother?"

He gently shook her awake, and in the first few seconds of consciousness he almost saw in her the love he always dreamed she'd share. But it was not his place to be loved, not now the organic baby was on its way. He'd learned that the hard way, listening through keyholes and trying to fight down inexplicable pain every time he settled to recharge.

"Mother, please, I need your help."

"I'm tired. Leave me alone."

She never said his name any more, but for whatever reasons Marluxia knew that he shouldn't ask.

"But mother, I-"

"I'm not your mother," She'd said, so plainly, and Marluxia was so shocked that his legs forgot to work and he toppled hopelessly onto the floor.

"Well, of course, not really, but-"

"Go away."

"Y-yes. Sorry."

But, he thought as he scrambled to his feet and actually ran, she had _always_ been his mother. Mother and father: of course they weren't really, but he'd always called them that because they were family and he was their creation, their son. That was the one thing that he relied on to stop this malfunctioning pain from exploding out into-

When he sank into the grass lawn he couldn't even force his breath to stop shuddering. He'd never felt like this before, never experienced this tight, bitter taste in his throat or this curling infestation of pain in his core. He'd never shaken so much his hydraulics felt like giving way, he'd never been breathing so erratically that he couldn't even fill his lungs to fifty percent capacity. Was there something wrong with him? Had his parents - no, his _creators_ - overlooked some mistake in his design or manufacture to make him function this way when he did things wrong? The longer he thought about it, the less he could try to brush away his feelings as intentional programming. It didn't feel like he was supposed to shiver with such pain. If he wasn't supposed to question himself, why had he been granted the ability to do so?

At eight o'clock, in need of recharge, he crawled back indoors and down to the laboratory. Here were all the things he'd been told not to touch - but _why_? He'd understand the reason - there were so many reasons that he could appreciate as clear as day, so why did they not bother explaining to him some things? Was he just expected to follow orders without question, like some mindless robot?

His thought track stopped him dead.

That was the whole point. He _was_ a mindless robot. Whatever thoughts he thought he was thinking, he wasn't, because he couldn't think - even the thoughts thinking that he was thinking thoughts weren't thoughts. They were just processes that his CPU were sorting through for him to operate. But...

That was slowly getting harder and harder to believe. Marluxia wasn't even supposed to believe; he should have been unable to comprehend any reality other than his own. Surely if he was not meant to question his parents' authority, he wouldn't have been programmed to do so?

He didn't know. He really just didn't know.

* * *

A month later and there was the baby, a lot smaller and uglier than Marluxia had expected - but cute, in his own right. They called him Vexen. Marluxia thought that it was a rather fittingly succinct name until he realised that he wasn't supposed to be thinking.

He tried not to think these days, presuming all supposed-thoughts to be malfunctioning in his core processor. It was his job to follow all orders without question and, when not needed, return to his storage room (if anybody could call it that) to recharge. Even if he spent all of his recharging time silently screaming at the black, empty walls - that was the only way of relieving the pain. It didn't help much, but... it helped a little.

He took to skittering. He abandoned his vocalisers for simple nods of acknowledgement when his creators saw fit to speak to him. He'd slink around walls, hide in dark corners, listening to Vexen slowly developing in their loving arms. He'd smile when he'd hear the baby gurgle, experience deep desire to protect and nurture him when he cried. But he stuck to the shadows, too scared of repercussions to step forwards and submit to his temptations. They loved him enough, he told himself. They never shouted at Vexen like they sometimes did to Marluxia. Unlike he who could do no right, the baby couldn't take a wrong step if he tried.

Still, when his creators weren't around, Marluxia found the courage to come creeping into the playroom, to curl up by the crib to watch Vexen sleep. When he was old enough, Marluxia would lower soft toys down to watch Vexen's chubby little fingers grab a crushing hold of them, or even find their way to Marluxia's once perfect hands. Now they were wrought with scars, collected here and there where the malleable plastic had chipped or melted, collected ingrained dirt or lost its colour, solidified through lack of maintenance and cracked. It was happening all over Marluxia's body, but his hands were the worst. Not so beautiful now. But Vexen would still chortle with innocent happiness when Marluxia dared to lift him into his arms, wiggle his fingers in front of the baby's face. Vexen liked to suck on his fingers. Sometimes chew them. He left tooth marks as his first baby teeth began to poke through, but Marluxia forgave him. It was sort of adorable.

He kept his secretive visits brief. If Vexen's parents were to find him, he didn't want to think what would happen. They'd already caught him eavesdropping too many times, let alone creeping in to play with the baby.

But a heavy toll began to settle on Marluxia's shoulders as Vexen tried out his first wobbly baby steps to the delight of his parents, as Marluxia himself suffered a leg malfunction and fell down the stairs only to be chastised with weary malice. He seemed to be operating at a double standard to everything else - if Vexen accidentally broke something, no matter - they'd make a fuss of him to check that everything was alright. If he was injured, God forbid, they'd deal with the problem swiftly and lovingly, and look after him for days until he recovered. He didn't have words, but a logicless desperation was creeping into Marluxia's core processor. He was, after all, programmed to please. He innately desired to be held in good regard by the people he served - and most days they hardly even registered his existence.

One summer, Vexen had been careering about the garden when he'd fallen and grazed his knee. Marluxia had watched the fuss from inside with a longing that was almost physically painful. Three days later he took to his own leg with the bread knife.

"S-Sir. I've had an accident."

"Oh, for God's sake. What's got into your malfunctioning, error-riddled processor?"

"I fell, Sir."

"Well, don't just stand there looking pathetic. Go and sort it out."

"Y-yes. Sir."

He'd dragged himself downstairs to the labs to inspect the damage. The major hydraulics operating his leg were ruined beyond repair. He'd need replacements. That meant asking for things; he'd surely be instantly rebuked.

What good were his legs for anyway? There was little need for him to travel - all he did was complete housework that had long since become a routine, never a request, and skulk behind doorways to peep on Vexen. In fact, what good was he doing being online anyway? His whole life, he'd been nothing but a hindrance.

* * *

The death of Marluxia Starscream was not mourned. Well, by all bar one. In his last moments, the robot limped into Vexen's room, and slowly made his way over to the bed.

"Hello, Vexen."

He'd woken the tiny child, barely younger than he was, with his words.

"Marly!"

He'd smiled, even though his body was breaking. A cracked hand was held out, held close by living, sentient flesh.

"I've... I've come to say goodbye."

The shaking had started. The shaking that he'd been experiencing for years, most nights. The shaking that made him wonder if by some fluke of nature, he'd somehow developed his own sentience and free will.

"I'm no use any more."

Even the baby seemed to realise that something was amiss.

"Marly..."

Marluxia had gathered himself together enough to keep his vocaliser even. For whatever it was good for, speaking to a child that hardly understood.

"You mustn't say that, you know? You can't let them know that I talk to you."

"Mah. Marly."

Marluxia felt the scream rise in his throat, silenced it just in time, drew Vexen close in his shuddering hands.

"You're going to be amazing, Vexen. Just like your parents. I just wish I could be there to see you. But I'm just a failed experiment now."

For the first time, Marluxia made Vexen cry, staining the fabric of his old, once stark white shirt with tears.

"I'm sorry. I wish I was good enough to have been here for you."

Marluxia's voice was cracking, static along his vocaliser building to critical. Couldn't walk. Couldn't speak. Couldn't control the spasmodic shaking racking every motor nerve in his body. Couldn't do _anything_ right.

"Goodbye."

He set the baby down, smiled weakly one last time and held out his hand for Vexen to grab at and play with until he giggled. Then Marluxia stood, left, and made for his storage room with a screwdriver and a pair of pliers, and no intention of ever leaving again.

* * *

"Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me."

Vexen, sixteen years old. Just abandoned by his parents, two year research trip, Brazil. Even he had to admit that it was fairly amazing having the house to himself for once - and indeed, for quite some time - it was still infuriating because that meant that they honestly didn't care about oh, only his exams, his prom, his results, his entire first year of sixth form and most of his second, and countless other meaningless events sure to take place in the next two years of Vexen's life.

And besides, they'd left the laboratory locked. What was the point of having an underground laboratory in your house if you were going to leave it locked for two years? They could trust Vexen with it.

Probably.

Still. It was the principle and Vexen didn't think it was right leaving a sixteen year old to fend for himself for two years whether he personally cared, or not. There were also certain matters to be attended to - food, for example. Vexen wasn't much of a cooker and the maid that his parents hired was off somewhere else for at least the next six weeks. A lot of Chinese takeaways and pizza? It'd be costly - but serve his parents right for buggering off for two years in the first place.

But that didn't make it any less lonely around the place, even if Vexen did do his own thing most of the time when he was at home.

Still, what his parents didn't know was that he knew what the combination code into the labs was. And where they always hid the other key. Perhaps these two years wouldn't be so bad after all...

Twenty minutes later and Vexen had even hacked the security alarm code with laughable ease. Now all he needed was a summer project and having no parents around the house wouldn't be such a bad thing, after all. They'd be back, of course, every two months - but if he covered his tracks well Vexen would have nothing to worry about at all. So... was there anything in these cupboards that his parents wouldn't notice him playing around with?

This cupboard was locked. That meant that there either had to be something incredibly important or incredibly forgotten hidden inside. So it was with some determination that Vexen levered open the door, grabbed a torch and peered inside.

What he _didn't_ expect to see was a body.

Vexen froze for a split second until he realised that it wasn't a _real_ body - some kind of replica with plasticky, prosthetic limbs. It was badly damaged, panels cracked and lying open. One leg was even completely pulled away at the knee. Odd, Vexen thought as he hesitantly approached, brushing a hand down the clearly synthetic hair, it didn't look incomplete. It looked like it had been sabotaged. And quite some time ago, too. The cupboard was filled with gently pluming dust. Clearly forgotten, then, Vexen thought as he levered the heavy body into his arms and carried it out of the closet. It'd be interesting to fix the thing up, see if it would work.

Vexen laid the thing out onto one of the laboratory desks and inspected it with a critical eye. It looked as though it had been meticulously crafted, once, but had long since fallen into disrepair. And these grooves deeply carved into each slightly elasticised panel of skin were definitely deliberately inflicted. Strange... But Vexen was not planning to become a forensics expert. He was here to toy with this curious body. He carefully lifted each limb up, one by one, to test the joints - the latex around a few of them had frozen up and splintered, brittle, at the force. Vexen sighed to himself as he removed shards of once supple plastic. Where would he find replacement parts for this? He could use filler to fix the cracks temporarily, but on the offhand chance that this robot would actually work he'd have to find a more permanent solution. But, although at the forefront of the robot's physical appearance, that was the least of Vexen's problems. After half an hour's inspection he concluded that the hydraulics and circuitry controlling this thing were far more complex than anything he'd really encountered before in his previous tinkerings. As for the CPU, which he could only presume was situated in the robot's head, he couldn't even find a hatch by which to access it. Well. He'd fix the body first and then see where he went from there.

* * *

It took _months_. Vexen was soon stalled by the desperate need for new, replacement parts - luckily he knew his parents' credit card details - and even then with no specs learning how to implement each component was a task taxing for even his clearly superior intellect. But in between school and sleep, there was nothing else to do - so eventually, in between a brief visit from his parents, the robot was more or less repaired. There were still cracks and blemishes in its skin, but Vexen had smoothed the worst of them out with filler and painted over some of the rest of the damage with a spray paint that was nearly the same colour as the salmon plastic.

There were quite a lot of things about the robot that had surprised Vexen. It had lungs; in fact it was filled with a network of empty tubes that at first seemed to serve no discernable purpose. A robot was run on electricity - it didn't need to breath. It took some time for Vexen to work out that this was actually some kind of ventilation system; cool air was breathed in, pumped around the body to stop it overheating, and then the warmer air was breathed out. An almost silent procedure. Impressive. The robot had a curious vocaliser, too: in careful experimentation it seemed to emit just a few single notes, but connected to it were an entire network of complex motors to manipulate the mouth into forming the right sounds. It could perfectly pronounce every letter. Vexen couldn't wait to see how this thing spoke. It was like every detail of the body was mapped as accurately as possible to the human body, right down to its fingerprints, which seemed even to have some use for gripping.

But now, seven months later, Vexen found himself straddling the body (it was easier to work that way) with the final fully charged battery unit in his hand and the robot's stomach panel wide open with a perfect sized gap. For dramatic purposes, Vexen had refrained from testing the body until it was fully repaired. Now he'd got it all sorted, or so he hoped, it was time to see if it worked and fix any remaining errors from there. So this was it.

He plugged the battery in, closed the panel, sat back, and waited.

Nothing happened for twenty seconds or more.

Then the robot coughed.

If Vexen had been expecting anything, it wasn't that. On reboots, most robots usually recited their manufacture number or spent a few minutes 'recalculating' until they knew where they were. They didn't _cough_.

When nothing more happened for a moment, Vexen carefully stood and climbed back down onto the floor. It had coughed. Well, that was unimpressive.

Then it clicked and rolled over onto its hands and knees, tucked its head into its neck and began to silently scream. Perhaps this was why the body had been abandoned to a cupboard, Vexen thought. The CPU was clearly malfunctional. Well, he hadn't spent seven months rewiring and replacing components for a faulty robot. He'd fix it, even if he had to electromagnetically wipe the processor and begin from scratch.

Something paused his thought track. The robot was looking at him. Literally, right into his eyes. Robots could focus on objects, yes, but to have a focal recognition this advanced? Vexen itched to get his hands on that processor even if it was corrupted, just to see how_ that _worked.

"Hello," He carefully said, looking back at the robot. It frowned at him. What kind of a robot was programmed to frown when it was spoken to? In fact, what kind of robot had so many motors in its face that it _could_ frown? And, clearly, not do anything else. Vexen sighed and tried again, speaking slowly and clearly. He had no idea what this thing's voice recognition programs were like, but he hoped they were good because it didn't seem to have a manual interface panel. "State your manufacture number."

The robot seemed to shrink back as though it were scared, glancing around before focusing again on Vexen.

"I- I don't have one," It said. And it had stuttered. Faulty vocaliser, Vexen thought, tutting. Well, no wonder, since it was clearly of such an experimental nature.

"Date of manufacture?"

"Some time in April?" The robot hazarded a guess. And robots didn't hazard guesses. They either knew or their system crashed and you had to reboot them.

"Manufacturer?"

But by now the robot didn't even appear to be listening - this was beyond weird, because robots couldn't ignore somebody even if they had the capability to not want to - simply staring at him with an expression that Vexen couldn't place. He uncertainly waved his hand in front of it.

"Manufacturer?"

The robot opened its mouth, so deceptively human in its nature, and apparently decided not to speak after all before blurting out as though it couldn't help it:

"Vexen? Is that you?"

Thrown by such a sudden and apparently random outburst, Vexen took a few seconds in replying.

"How do you know my name?"

The robot's eyes opened wide in something that might have been surprise were it actually sentient.

"You've grown so much! I... Wow. You look... you look... nice."

Vexen found himself opening his mouth to reply with something equally jumbled, but he stopped himself, casting his eyes over the robot's body. No. This was a machine. It could calculate but it could not understand. Obviously the hesitations were down to the ruptures in the vocaliser, and... was this some kind of joke?

"Who are you?"

The robot crawled into a heap on the edge of the desk. Its stature, Vexen noted, was meek. Why didn't it sit straight? Clearly its creator ought to have programmed it that way; it was better for the robot's support structure. Another malfunction, he guessed.

"Marluxia," The robot replied with a little more confidence than the other questions. "Marluxia Starscream."

"Starscream?" Vexen echoed before he could catch himself. "Like the traitorous Deception robot Starscream?"

"Your parents had a strange sense of humour," Marluxia admitted quietly. Wow. If it had managed to decode Vexen's highly colloquial speech, its programs couldn't be so scrambled after all. But it was replying in such an odd way, almost like... human conversation. Vexen had several robots that helped around the house, and talking to one was like trying to converse with a brick. They'd agree with you, or inform you of something if you asked, but that really was it. Marluxia seemed to be different, somehow.

"Right," He said, mostly to himself. "Right, I'm talking to a robot. This makes no sense whatsoever."

"Why not?" Marluxia asked.

Robots did not ask questions. Not unless they were programmed to ask out of formality, like the endless repetition of "and how are you this morning?" that set Vexen hacking into the vacuum cleaner. This one even sounded curious.

"Because robots don't understand." He stated, wondering why he hadn't just turned this machine off already.

"Oh," Marluxia said. "Sorry." And it shut up. This, Vexen decided, was quickly getting too weird to handle. Feeling the need to at least make the most of having the robot online, he gestured vaguely to the space he'd cleared in front of the desk.

"Stand." He commanded flatly, because that way he felt more like he was talking to a robot and less like he was talking to a person. Marluxia nodded vehemently, and took great care in levering itself from the desk and wobbling onto the floor. After a few shaky steps, its stabilisers kicked in, and it stood, hunchbacked and quivering a little, in front of Vexen. It was slightly shorter than him, and looking terrified.

"Right." Vexen said, still thrown by this robot's impressive mimic of human emotion. "Yes. Can you move all of your limbs? I mean-"

Marluxia dutifully tested out all of its joints. A few of them clicked but on the whole its movements were fluid. So it nodded, and shuffled uncomfortably again. Vexen realised that he really didn't like talking naturally to robots. It didn't seem right.

"Stand up straight," He commanded. Marluxia complied, straightening its back, but it soon wilted like a dying flower into its apparently natural pose of stooping gracelessly. "Right. Okay. It looks like you're working again. Sort of."

Marluxia swallowed and nodded, looking up almost hopefully. Except, Vexen reminded himself, robots couldn't be hopeful. Damn it. This was hard.

"Y-you were the one who fixed me?"

"Found you in the cupboard," Vexen said. "I didn't have anything better to do so- wait. Wait. I'm talking to a robot. Stop looking at me like that."

"S-sorry," Marluxia said, and kept its gaze on the floor. It was shaking again, knees practically knocking together. The couldn't possibly be energy efficient, so Vexen led him back to the desk and levered him on.

"I suppose I'd better fix that shaking of yours."

"It's a malfunction," Marluxia said. "I always get it when- well. All the time. I tried to see if there was something wrong with my motors but I couldn't see anything out of place." Then it seemed to catch itself, and stopped abruptly. "Sorry. I spoke out of place."

So it lay still and closed its eyes ,only the occasional spasm racking its body. Vexen flipped open one panel and watched in fascination as each tiny motor that he could see clenched and relaxed each time Marluxia shook. There was nothing wrong with them - they were just randomly flinching.

"Looks like it's a problem with your CPU," He concluded. "Which means there's nothing I can do about it."

"Sorry," Marluxia said again.

"Stop apologising."

"Sorr- oh... um... okay."

Marluxia cracked one eye open and furtively followed Vexen as he bustled around the room.

"They didn't tell you then," It eventually said, pulling itself into a sitting position. Vexen turned with a questioning look in his eyes and Marluxia even seemed to sense this, which must have meant some extremely complex circuitry in that enigmatic head. "About me."

"Who?"

"Your parents. They... you know. About me."

"Speak in proper sentences, please."

Marluxia looked like it had to concentrate to even do that. And robots didn't do concentration; they either could or they couldn't. For Marluxia, everything seemed to lie in a grey area of mediocre, which could only have taken some very intensive, time consuming programming - in which case why didn't its creators just make it capable?

"I take it that your parents never told you that they made me before you were born." Marluxia finally said. It occurred to Vexen that when that vocaliser worked, it worked well. And also that he kept trying to refer to Marluxia as a 'he'.

"So my parents made you," He said, mostly to confirm it to himself. Marluxia nodded.

"They were very proud of me until I started malfunctioning," He said, and seemed to be rather sad about it. "Which... um... didn't take long."

"I figured," Vexen curtly replied, and this seemed to upset Marluxia even more. Could you upset a robot? No. So why was Marluxia curling inwards on himself even more than his usual bad posture, scratching meaninglessly at the backs of his hands and glancing so nervously around the room?

"I think it was best to be offline in the end," He said quietly after a few moments of awkward silence. "I'm just a danger to everybody around me."

"I'm sure it's nothing a bit of maintenance can't fix," Vexen said, trying to be reasonable. Marluxia shook his head.

"It's all in my CPU," He said. "I can't control any of it either. I can't do anything right. I always want to scream. I don't understand how anything works, and then there's this _shaking_... I'm always shaking. Sometimes I drop things. Sometimes I forget to do other things. Occasionally I don't want to recharge when I need to because I think it would be easier to just run out of batteries and not have to do anything and more. And-" He paused, his breath hitching, "Sometimes this happens. I can't make myself breathe properly."

Vexen honestly didn't know what to say to that rattled list of malfunctions. They sounded horridly like... but that, of course, wasn't possible.

Marluxia was shaking even more now, practically clattering, and the way his malfunctioning breathing system was operating it sounded like he was sobbing.

"Sometimes my vocaliser won't work," He continued. "Sometimes I want my eyes to leak because it feels like it would make me feel better. Sometimes I wish that somebody would pretend I was real."

He appeared to catch himself, and his spine curled so much that somewhere on his back, the old, worn plastic cracked in a line.

"I'm so sorry. Please don't hurt me."

Vexen stopped abruptly.

"Why would I hurt you?"

Marluxia looked up too quickly and crack, the plastic in the back of his neck splintered. Vexen needed to do something about that, he decided quickly. Or else the house was soon going to be filled with little shards of skin colour plastic where Marluxia was literally falling apart. But where would he find an entire replacement latex body?

Well - he'd been able to locate and obtain various other components of Marluxia's body with surprising ease, so perhaps that sort of thing wouldn't be too hard to find, after all. Even if it meant going through his parent's old receipts.

"B-because I'm malfunctioning." Marluxia stated. "Sometimes I can't get my vocaliser to _stop_."

"But physical violence doesn't affect robots," Vexen argued. He knew that well enough; one could fling a robot, kicking and screaming, down the stairs and if it didn't break it would just pick itself up and continue like nothing had even happened.

"Oh." Marluxia said quietly. And he began to shake again. Vexen wanted to explain away why he had a sudden urge to just give Marluxia a hug.

"Look," He said carefully as Marluxia swallowed a few times and began to inspect himself as though desperate for a distraction, "Obviously you're not like other robots. So why don't we go upstairs, get you into some clothes, and we can-"

"Clothes," Marluxia interrupted. He scrambled over to the cupboard where Vexen had first found him, and forcefully wrenched the door open. "I can't believe I'm naked. I'm so sorry."

From the cupboard, as Vexen watched in utter surprise at a robot being ashamed of wearing no clothes, Marluxia dragged a large and slowly disintegrating cardboard box. He pulled from the box with _still_ quivering hands a crumpled shirt and held it up.

"Oh," He said, and laid it down with great care on the floor. Oh the fabric, he placed one hand, and watched it with some kind of amazement. Perhaps this robot really _was_ completely malfunctioning, Vexen thought.

"What is it?"

"_You_..."

"Me?"

Marluxia pulled his palm away to reveal a tiny splodge of a blue handprint on the breastpocket of the shirt.

"I remember when you..." Marluxia began, and trailed off.

"Continue."

"Oh? Oh. Um. You were playing with the paints. A long time ago. And..." Marluxia paused, pressing one hand against his own chest to where his heart would be if he had one, position corresponding to the handprint on his shirt. "You were just learning to talk. You used to call me Marly."

Vexen knelt down and looked at the tiny hand, so tempted to reach out and lay his now long, bony fingers against the relic of his toddlerhood. His parents weren't the kind of people to save this sort of thing - but here was his very own handprint, right here...

"Wow." He said.

"I used to love making you laugh," Marluxia admitted. "Sometimes it was the only thing that kept me going... I mean... in the end. You were such a sweet child."

"I'm surprised I don't remember you," Vexen said. Marluxia let his hand fall to his side, his next breath stuttering just a little.

"I wasn't around for long."

Vexen couldn't help but ask.

"What happened?"

Marluxia froze like somebody'd paused his body, perfectly statuesquely still. Then, appearing to have ignored Vexen, he stood and bustled over to the box, pulling out a set of clothes that must have been smart once but had long since succumbed to wear, tear and time.

"I'm so sorry."

Vexen chose to let this particular glitch slide, and stood as well, carefully lifting the shirt into his hands.

"Do you want this?"

"Oh. Um. Just-" Marluxia stopped whatever he was going to say, and half-dressed, hurried over to take the shirt back. "I'll just put it away in this box here."

"I could have done that for you," Vexen gently pointed out - but Marluxia looked to be the obedient sort of type, so he didn't really expect the robot to understand the concept of a human doing a robot's work. And sure enough - for once predictably - Marluxia looked up, horrified.

"But-!"

"You're not a slave, you know."

"Well," Marluxia mused as he finished buttoning up his shirt with fumbling fingers and heaved the box back into the cupboard, "I _am_."

Marluxia seemed too goddamn sentient as he stood in anticipation of Vexen's next order to be rightly called a slave, Vexen thought. He was deceptively emotional, in a way that made Vexen forget that he was talking to an artificially created if advanced computer, and not an extremely timid human being. It was strange, though, Vexen found himself thinking: if his parents could make a bot as advanced as this - because Vexen had no doubt about it, Marluxia's circuitry was more complex than any robot he'd seen, either mainstream or academic - then why were they wasting their time with comparatively simple worker robots? Marluxia could understand colloquial speech, and even seamlessly replicate it. He could map a human emotion right down to the subtle downwards curve of his mouth. He'd ask questions and interpret the data. The more Vexen thought about this, the more _insane_ Marluxia seemed.

No, he came to the conclusion later as Marluxia malfunctioned in his room and tried to run away back to the labs, there was something abnormal about this robot. Whatever it was, it couldn't have been planned. In some respects, Marluxia was faultier than a broken microwave. In others he couldn't have been created by anything other than a scientific genius. It was like, Vexen thought, he'd somehow by some inexplicable anomaly in his motherboard, developed Artificial Intelligence. Quite a terrifying thought when Vexen revisited it that night.

He'd plugged Marluxia in at the other end of the room, feeling heartless in forcing him back to the labs. He was leaning against the wall, breathing softly and apparently the robotic equivalent of asleep. Vexen had spent the afternoon trying to get Marluxia to tell him why he'd been found in a such terrible state of disrepair and apparently having spent fourteen years offline in the cupboard, but all he'd managed to work out was that Marluxia appeared to be in awe and terror of his parents, and fairly pessimistic about the capabilities of his own CPU. And his entire logic patterns revolved around satisfying other people's wants and needs and how dreadfully important this was.

But it was still disconcerting that Marluxia could so convincingly be apparently human, even if his cracking face was clearly artificial. Vexen caught himself feeling sorry for the robot several times. And it hardly helped that his surname just happened to be Starscream. Starscream, from that centuries old and scientifically disproven idea that somehow you could have robots that transformed into vehicles. It was quaint, really. A lot of the oldest science-fictions were.

But despite the presence of a potentially aptly-named robot in his room, Vexen slept well. It was like, he remembered thinking in that stage of half-awakeness in the early hours of the morning, a comforting familiarity close at hand. This, he realised in waking, was because in the night Marluxia must have crawled over and was now watching him in the soft light of dawn, with sincere blue eyes.

"You hiccup just like you used to," Marluxia said as, groaning, Vexen sat up and rubbed some kind of feeling back into his head.

"What?"

"I used to watch you sleep," Marluxia said like this was a completely normal course of actions, "When you were little. And you used to hiccup. You still do. It's sweet."

"Uh... thanks?"

There weren't many things you could say to a robot commenting on your sleeping habits, really. Marluxia, who looked inexplicably happier this morning, smiled a little.

"I knew you'd be amazing," He said suddenly. Vexen frowned at this, because of all the crazy things Marluxia had already managed to spew out of his databanks, things about Vexen were the weirdest. "I mean, not just because of your parents. I could just tell. You're really lucky, you know that."

It was disturbing because, to add to being absolutely petrified of Vexen's parents, when it came to Vexen himself Marluxia's opinions seemed to teeter worryingly on the edge of obsession. Vexen didn't know if these sycophantic tendencies were just part of Marluxia's original programming, but he certainly hoped so. He wasn't sure he wanted a psychotic, malfunctioning robot to be legitimately obsessed with him.

* * *

Days passed, and once Marluxia came to realise that Vexen's parents weren't around and wouldn't be for some time, he seemed to grow more confident. Could a robot be confident? Vexen didn't even know any more. But although he still had a tendency to skitter around doorways, he held himself a little straighter now, and sometimes when he forgot who he was he'd fleetingly smile. It was surreal watching his personality apparently shift as he adapted to this new, non-formidable environment, and his day-to-day moods which could change as fluidly as any human. And if there was anything that robots didn't do, it was fluidity.

This left Vexen very confused, and truly beginning to doubt Marluxia's status as an honest-to-goodness manufactured robot. There was just too much of a rift between robots and _Marluxia_. Like the way things seemed to occur to him, or how he could arrive at one conclusion and after ten more minutes of thinking change his mind - it was just too complex for any programming, particularly programming that could fit inside Marluxia's head. As far as development into AI went, they'd made robots that could mimic human expressions in a known environment - but not to the extent of Marluxia's sheer versatility. Developing software that impressive would take lifetimes, so if he really had just been created, then why had Vexen's parents seen fit to simply throw him away?

Eventually it became apparent that short of actually asking his parents - which was off the agenda, since Vexen wasn't even supposed to have access to the labs - he was not going to find out what was up with Marluxia's seeming possession of a personality. So Vexen set about seeing if, by some fluke of mechanics, he could fix it.

Scientists had always had problems with creating robots that could learn. Adaptation of sorts, yes: but truly learning and embracing something entirely new and applying knowledge was something that was human alone. So it was the perfect way to check if there was more to Marluxia than met the eye: teach him something new.

"Hey, Marluxia. Do you know how to cook?"

The reaction was both instant and predictable: Marluxia, who'd been tending to some potted plants now on the verge of death from Vexen's neglect, looked up and looked incredibly guilty. His spine was laced with cracks now - Vexen had filled most of them in, but he still really needed to find a replacement skin.

"N-no. I'm sorry. I can-"

"It's fine. I was just wondering if I could try teaching you a few things."

Sure enough, Marluxia didn't seem to think anything of this apparently impossible task. But then again, Vexen had already listed off a few things that he seemed to have picked up since coming back online that hadn't been there in the beginning. Things that Vexen did with startling frequency; nervous tics, speech patterns - and Marluxia was mimicking them. Perhaps that was how he operated, like a copy cat. It would be a revolutionary development if he did - which again brought up the question of why he'd been abandoned with so much bodily damage.

"Oh. Okay."

They took the stairs down to the kitchen where Vexen laid out a few ingredients on the counter.

"You can use knives?"

This seemed to trigger a nerve somewhere, because Marluxia shuddered a little and took his time in nodding.

"Y-yeah."

"Okay. Well, we'll go through this recipe and then I want to see if you can do a different one. On your own."

Marluxia, skimming over the page of notes, nodded. His text recognition skills were above-par, too. He could decipher even the ugliest scrawled handwriting, namely Vexen's.

"That makes sense," He said. "You just follow the instructions. Flour... well, that's obviously sugar and those are eggs, and since flour's one of the dry ingredients then it's got to be _that_..." And he reached out and plucked the unlabeled flour box out from the ingredients. Powers of deduction, Vexen thought to himself. Most robots did not have powers of deduction. And they didn't mumble to themselves as they worked, either. Marluxia was mumbling, lips moving so quickly that Vexen could only pick out the occasional word. But he followed through the instructions, if with little confidence; Vexen barely needed to interfere. Half an hour later, there was a cake.

"Wow," Marluxia said as he tipped the thing out onto a cooling rack. "It looks like a cleaning sponge."

Comparisons, Vexen thought as he bit back a laugh. He had to ask his parents about this when they got home, whether it would also entail uncomfortable confessions or not.

* * *

Soon, days would go by without Marluxia seriously malfunctioning. His posture was still terrible, but he'd finally stopped apologising for everything, and he even seemed to be capable of completing even fairly complex tasks without any of his glitches kicking in. Vexen was impressed; he'd not even had to cut open the robot's head to change any of his programming - he'd just apparently fixed himself. And curious by nature, Vexen desperately desired to know how that was possible.

"I want to scan your CPU," He said one day as he inverted the television out of sheer boredom down in the labs. "To see if there's anything abnormal about it."

Marluxia, who'd been watching him with a starstruck expression, nodded a little.

"'Kay."

Vexen was fairly sure that Marluxia developed through mimicking people: it made sense that to some extent he'd take on the characteristics of the people he served. In some respects, at least. But the mimicry was flawed and incomplete; Marluxia seemed to be a mish-mash of all his previous experiences. Vexen didn't specialise in psychology but that seemed awfully familiar to how human personalities developed.

Which raised some very interesting questions about Marluxia indeed. Vexen couldn't help but wonder if maybe his CPU wasn't a CPU but perhaps a _brain_.

So he laid Marluxia face down on one of the clearer desks and performed several standardised tests that one was to proceed with when fixing some kind of machinery that couldn't be opened, either practically or safely. Ten minutes later, the results had loaded.

Being man-made, Vexen knew well enough that circuitry was always formed of planes, with logical and efficient patterns and layouts to conserve space and resources.

Marluxia's CPU wasn't.

It was a _mess_.

There were wires winding several inches around empty gaps for no discernible purpose, wires leading to nowhere, components that didn't even look human. It was also pulsing, very faintly. It looked alien.

Vexen very carefully stood.

"Marluxia." He said.

"Yeah?"

Marluxia shifted a little and the real time visualisation on the adjacent computer screen blurred and refocused.

"You... you were man-made, weren't you?"

"As far as I know," Marluxia agreed, which was a far cry from the definitive '_yes_' that Vexen had been hoping for. Irritatingly, the circuitry which would take years to decipher, confirmed nothing and disproved less. Well, it was clearly not organic - but it hardly looked as though a human would successfully program that jumbled mess. So Vexen sighed and unplugged Marluxia's head. The screen zapped blank.

"That was uninformative," He concluded.

"What did it look like?"

Vexen opened up a few screen shots and Marluxia studied them carefully for several minutes, calculating.

"That makes sense," He eventually said. Vexen was surprised.

"No, it doesn't."

"It's held in some kind of semi conductive material," Marluxia stated, pointing at the screen with a cracked finger. "One that's not metal, because it isn't coming up on your scanners. I'd say it's probably a solution, since graphite wouldn't be the right consistency. It's obviously got a high viscosity or else the components would largely be collected at the bottom and not suspended like they are."

It occurred to Vexen that perhaps Marluxia was more intelligent than he let on. Well, he was a robot - so he likely had an incredibly high storage capacity in his databanks. When it came to logic functions, Vexen wasn't sure. But Marluxia certainly _knew_ things.

"Explain the pulsing then," He challenged. "It was moving; there aren't any motors here. Half of it's rudimentary flash drives."

"Probably minute movements in my head making this carrier substance move," Marluxia duly speculated. Vexen shook his head.

"No. It was more... what's the word? Regular. It was a steady pulse, not just random movements."

Marluxia's shoulders sagged.

"I don't know, then."

Vexen irritably shoved himself away from the desk, sending his wheeled chair spinning.

"So I'm none the wiser than I was before this whole waste of time."

"You could try looking at the rest of it." Marluxia suggested. "I mean. The things that didn't come up on that first scan."

"What I need to do," Vexen huffed, "Is look at your head. And that means cutting you open." He wasn't sure that he wanted to perform a vivisection, even if Marluxia was a robot.

"Okay," Marluxia said.

"You're not supposed to be completely blasé about that," Vexen insisted

"You can fix me back up," Marluxia replied, shrugging.

"But your CPU's more complex than anything I've come across before in my life. If I damaged it I could seriously impair your functioning abilities."

"I don't think you could make them much worse if you tried," Marluxia stated philosophically, offering Vexen a cracked smile. Vexen felt a shudder run though his spine. Whatever Marluxia was, he had an ability to elicit an emotional reaction from Vexen and that was not something that robots did. Robots didn't need empathy. They had no emotions.

But it was blatantly obvious that Marluxia did, and Marluxia didn't realise, and Marluxia couldn't control them and Marluxia thought that he was malfunctioning when all he was being was human.

"This is a long shot," He eventually said after several minutes of hard thinking, "But I'm going to run you through a brain scan. Just in case."

"But I don't have a brain," Marluxia protested as Vexen levered him over to the correct equipment, silently thanking his parents for acquiring this particular machine some years ago from an old friend. He'd had great fun with it before scanning his own brain, but it looked like it had a practical use, too. He loaded Marluxia in and set the scanner running.

Retrospectively, he didn't know whether he'd been half expecting the results he collected or not. But it didn't matter. What he found himself looking at was nothing more than insane. There was the jumbled circuitry, bright white under the scans. And what was around it, interacting seamlessly with every dead-end connection and oddly shaped resistor, was very definitely _organic_.

_Brain_.

Vexen found himself staring at this fusion for quite some time. There was no way that this could have been created by a person. And whose brain was this, anyway? Had his parents removed it from somebody, somehow implemented it into this artificial shell? Because that, Vexen realised dully enough, was playing God. You didn't get more unethical than stealing a brain for a pet project you were intending to throw in a cupboard after a few years anyway.

But still, Vexen couldn't conceive of any way that a mere human could create Marluxia's controlling... whatever the hell it was. Not in the lifetime of the brain. He'd be senile by now. Marluxia's body, he was willing to believe; such flawless replicas had long since been created, some with even more lifelike complexity than Marluxia. But not the brain. It looked like it had developed with the wiring... embryonic research? It couldn't be.

So a little numbly, Vexen helped Marluxia out and set him down in a chair, watching him as he bumbled about the place with the uncoordinated fluidity of a human. That was because he _was_ human, deep in his core. Oh, God.

And he thought he wasn't sentient. He thought that everything natural for a human, all the emotions and mistakes and learning new things, was a malfunction. No wonder he was so broken. It was amazing that he hadn't tried to-

"Marluxia," Vexen said carefully after a horrific realisation hit him, kneeling in front of the robot- no, the _boy_ - and looking him dead in the eye, "That damage you had, when I found you. You didn't... you didn't do that yourself, did you?"

Marluxia began to shake. His breathing shallowed. Not malfunctions, Vexen thought as he instinctively pulled the cracked, rigid body into his own arms. Grief. Pain. Fear. Confusion. Self-loathing.

"I didn't-" Marluxia tried, clinging back with as much ferocity, "I didn't know what to do. Being offline was better."

Vexen held him close and stroked his senseless back until the sobs had subsided a little.

"I know what's wrong with you," He eventually whispered.

"Everything," Marluxia pessimistically replied, sniffing.

"No." Vexen insisted, carefully sitting Marluxia back and brushing his thumb across the boy's cheek as though to wipe away imaginary tears. "Nothing."

"I don't understand."

Vexen took a deep breath and caught Marluxia's eyes again.

"You're human."

"I'm not," Marluxia said, shaking his head a little. Vexen pulled him up and took him over to the photographs he'd taken of the scans.

"Look," He said, pointing. "You have a brain. Or part of one, at least. That's why you're supposedly malfunctioning. It's because you're feeling emotions. All of this is because you're _human_. Even if your body's artificial your mind isn't."

Marluxia looked at this for quite some time before he spoke.

"Oh."

"I don't know where you came from," Vexen admitted, "Because this circuit-brain is far too complex for anything a human could make."

"Your parents made me."

"Your body, perhaps," Vexen said. "But not this. They couldn't have made this. They'd have to be Gods to actually create a new sentient being."

"Well," Marluxia whispered as he leaned over the pictures, studied them in awe and silent realisation, "They _are_. God made you, didn't he? And they made me. They're my Gods."

"I don't even know if God exists," Vexen said glumly. "And if they're your Gods, I'd pick someone better. They're pretty shitty when it comes down to it."

Marluxia considered this for a long time. So long that Vexen ran out of silence and spoke again.

"And anyway, it's not like you need a God. Nobody needs God any more. We've got science."

"Don't you find it scary to think that everything happened by accident?" Marluxia argued quietly.

"Not really. That just explains why it took so long."

"Explain me, then."

Vexen sighed.

"I can't."

"I'm sorry," Marluxia said after a few minutes, brushing his scarred hand over the scans. "I'm just confused. This... this changes _everything_."

"It's okay," Vexen found himself murmuring, laying one hand on Marluxia's back again. "I'm here for you."

"That's what Gods are for, right?" Marluxia said contemplatively. "Being there for you when you need them the most..."

"Yeah. I guess so," Vexen laughed, finding himself a little worried as Marluxia turned to look at his face with hopeful eyes.

"Will... will you be my God?"

"I don't think that's how things work," He apologised.

"I don't think I'm how things work, either," Marluxia pointed out.

"I suppose."

"So is that a yes?"

Vexen sat back. He didn't think that people could just become Gods because somebody asked them to. Then again, nothing when it came to Marluxia really made any sense.

"Well... Can't I just be your friend instead?"

"I don't know," Marluxia hummed. "What's a friend?"

… Vexen showed him.

* * *

This would be the robot-Marluxia idea that I was going to do for 047 - Transformation and didn't. The link between the word and the prompt is obscure, I know. Consider it an allegory.

This, I believe, is our longest prompt yet and 10K words. Ahahaha.


	30. 059 Breathing

**059 - Breathing**

It's weird, Lumaira thinks one afternoon as he adjusts a smart cotton shirt around his body and fumbles in applying an equally immaculate tie. Two years ago and he'd have thought that attempting to wear masculine clothes would suffocate him. He'd only been eighteen then: moving out with Even for university and a job, he'd vowed never to wear stifling trousers again. Back then, he'd been so desperate to feel right he'd even considered saving up for gender reassignment surgery.

Now he's come to realise that feeling right doesn't necessarily mean feeling female - it just means feeling like himself. It took time to settle into himself; being forced into a masculine mould since puberty he now supposes that helplessly desiring to be a girl was in reality more of a need to be anything but a boy. He's not a man and he'll never see himself as one. But when he looks down at himself or up at a mirror, he can't really pretend to be a woman, either.

But, as Even often says, he doesn't _need_ to be. He's just Lumaira.

Lumaira likes that. He likes writing _unspecified_ when asked for his gender almost as much as he likes being referred to as 'miss' by successfully mistaken strangers. Gender? Whatever. Lumaira's Lumaira and that's the only thing that matters.

So here he is, wearing a suit that he'd once never be seen dead in, taking a deep breath and waiting patiently for Even to pop upstairs and take him away.

"Hello, stranger."

Lumaira laughs breathlessly.

"Oh, don't be like that."

The suit is effeminate by design but Lumaira's always been like that, girly even when he slips into his society-approved male persona. So what's the occasion? There isn't one.

Lumaira just sometimes likes standing straight and breathing deeply, walking down the street hand in hand with Even and not being complicated, just being _gay_.


	31. 061 Patch

**061 - Patch**

You're not used to being the centre of attention in the village: ever since you arrived you've just been one of those women who sits at the fringes of the festivities, fixing patches onto your brother's ever-ruined clothes and quietly gossiping with the older ladies. You've got good reason for it - because under your curled hair and floral dresses, you're a man.

And being a man, that means no communal bathing in the village pond even when the weather is sweltering, and no thin, silky dresses in summertime, and absolutely no courting other men for dreaded fear of intimacy.

But then along came Marluxia Harcèlle with his flowery, romantic demeanour and heavy French accent and gorgeous, muscular body and a curious interest in baring yours. It terrified you for a long time that he'd find out your secret, that you weren't really Larxene but _Vexen_ - all until he actually did.

After that you didn't have an excuse to politely deny his evermore public advances, and amazingly you found that you didn't really want to, either. So when he'd sneak up behind you at the fountain with a bunch of flowers you'd blush and stutter and accept them with a kiss on the back of your hand, and let him join you as you fixed patches onto your sister's ever ruined clothes.

And suddenly it was you they were all talking about - 'is the ice maiden Larxene _really_ to have herself a husband?' - and although all attention had the dangerous risk of becoming too close, you abruptly realised that you rather adored it.

"So I see that _Monsieur Harcèlle_ has really taken a shine to you, Larxene."

"Oh, he's really just flirting..."

"He's not flirting with _me_..."

"I'm jealous!"

You chuckle to yourself, on the bank of the river with all the other ladies, in your floppy, wide brimmed hat to keep out the sun and prying eyes, as you tug another swatch of fabric out of your basket to cover another tear in Larxene's breeches. You've always hated waste, and you'd much rather be constantly mending clothes than having to throw them out and buy anew. Even once this particular pair become unwearable, you won't get rid of them. The fabric will make rags for cleaning, or more patches for more holes.

"So, do you think he's going to propose?"

"Of course not!" You stutter indignantly, because people aren't supposed to ask those sorts of questions (although they of course always do), even though you'd secretly rather like to think that he will. "Anyway, he and his cousin aren't going to stay here for long."

"_I_ heard that they were looking to buy that little cottage next to the bakery."

"But Larxene, do you want him to?"

Out of the corner of your eye you glance Marluxia's tanned figure lifting a large crate up onto an already fairly heavily loaded wagon. He's still an odd-jobs man like his cousin Naminé, but you heard on the grapevine that he was looking to open a shop with her for the purpose to steady his income a little. You'd love to speculate as to why.

He turns briefly and catches your eyes, smiling and waving. Your face explodes into a blush just like it always does, even a year after Marluxia found your body to be shapeless and your chest to be flat.

And he's _still_ interested. A miracle indeed.

You smile a little as you wave back and he positively grins before turning back to work. You admire every tiny detail of his body, even the dirt under his fingernails that you always thought you'd abhor, even the scars that should have marred his perfection.

"Of course," You say.

"Larxene's in /love/!" Somebody singsongs, and you shoot her a glare under your make-up, partly because that's none of her business but mostly because it's true.

You're attending to a different type of patch when Marluxia rides over a few weeks later - he bought a horse, a speckled grey stallion with all the temperament of a particularly docile Labrador - and sweeps over to kiss your hand. His eyes are so blue, you find yourself thinking as you pick yourself up off your knees with cabbages in hand and lead him indoors. They're absolutely beautiful.

"So, Vexen," He says. He only ever calls you that when you're alone - and for good reason, too.

"What's your excuse this time?" You ask sardonically, even though your eyes are smiling. You let your voice drop a few notes to its natural, lower tone - because you're alone, and Marluxia knows the truth and he doesn't care, and that would be glorious even if he himself wasn't the most beautiful man you'd ever laid your eyes upon.

"Nothing. I just wondered if you were free. _Ce soir_."

"Tonight," You automatically correct when Marluxia slips back into his mother tongue. His English has vastly improved since he arrived, but it's still patchy in places. You find it rather endearing.

"Oui."

"Well, I need to make dinner for Larxene-" You begin. You're interrupted.

"She has plans,"

"Really? That was nice of her to inform me."

"I offered to do so for her," Marluxia, unperturbed, says. "To save her a journey."

"Right." You say, tempted to petulantly bring up the fact that, Larxene or Marluxia, somebody had to make the trip to Hawethorne Cottage. "Well then, it looks like I'm free. What's the occasion?"

"I was wondering if I cold take you to dinner," Marluxia says, sliding over. The two of you are more intimate than perhaps you think society would allow, but then again the two of you are also both men, so you're not sure that the usual rules apply. But whether or not society likes it, you certainly enjoy feeling Marluxia's heavy mass resting against your back, his arms around your flat stomach and fingers softly stroking through several layers of fabric.

"I'd be honoured," You say after a moment. You feel him smile against your neck, and just like that he reaches up to kiss your cheek.

"I must be the luckiest man on Earth," He says, "To have found such a _femme fatale_ as you."

You laugh a little, leaning back against Marluxia. Suddenly that decision you made when you were twelve, to wear dresses for the rest of your life and resign yourself to the life of a female, seems to be an incredibly good one indeed.

* * *

"He _didn't_!"

"He _did_."

Two days later and you've got a ring, a pretty little silver thing made by the town's jeweller - and apparently there were quite a lot of people holding out on this particular secret and you're still stuck in the centre of attention.

"Oh, a wedding! I'm so _excited_!"

The whole village is attending. And you're going to be wearing a white silken dress and Marluxia will hold your hands at the altar and lift the veil from your face and kiss your lips, and you're both male and nobody's ever going to find out.

And it's one day late in the summer that Larxene comes over, grinning, and you're fixing patches onto a shirt when she digs deep in her pocket and pulls out a ring.

"Brother," She says once she's done explaining everything about little Naminé that you already knew, "We are geniuses."

And you laugh, because she's a woman and you're a man, and she's proposing to a woman tonight and you're married to a man, and you're in the spotlight and nobody knows the truth and that suits you both just fine.

And it's quite wonderful, really, to think that you're still patching up tattered clothes but this time they're not Larxene's but _Marluxia's_.

* * *

From the same universe as _012 - Trade _where Vexen and Larxene are twins pretending to be each other. One year on.


	32. 063 Harm

**063 - Harm**

Oh, _slag_.

There are quite a lot of profanities relating to the Cybertronian anatomy but _slag_ sums the situation up quite nicely into one foul syllable spat from an aching vocaliser in the depths of the night in some Allspark-forsaken sector of the galaxy.

Before the war began, Starscream aspired to be a Medibot. It wasn't as though he particularly cared for the idiots who managed to sustain damage; what really piqued his curiosity was the inner workings of any Cybertronian. How they worked down to the most minute detail - Starscream had up to that point spent much of his life studying every system, every processor, drinking up every data drive he could lay his servos on.

But the war broke out when he was still a young bot, and it wasn't long before he was snapped up by the Decepticon forces and instead found himself steadily climbing their ranks.

In retrospect he thinks that maybe it would have been a better idea to have said no, run for his life and enlist with Autobots instead. Of course it's too late now.

_Once a Decepticon, always a Decepticon._

He remembers the first time he met Megatron as clearly as fibreglass. Somebody had spotted his talent with null ray guns - mostly his knowledge of where exactly to hit an opponent where it would hurt the most - and his scientific expertise, and he'd found himself in Megatron's command room staring down perhaps the largest Decepticon he'd ever seen. Later, his mind would wander - but Megatron hadn't been given that name for nothing. He wasn't simply gargantuan, he was commanding. Terrifying, perhaps, not that Starscream ever liked to admit when he was scared.

The experience left him distinctly nonplussed. Out of Megatron's scarlet glare, he wasn't impressed by the Decepticon leader - clearly _Starscream_ was more intelligent, and even if his firepower wasn't quite so impressive Starscream knew where to aim. Megatron looked like one of those bots who'd just fire at will until everything had exploded - which was all very well, but it wasn't _efficient_. It was a weakness. One that Starscream fully intended to exploit.

When he found himself placed in second in command, Starscream never had any misconceptions as to why. Megatron just wanted him around for his own personal amusement. Of course, being the idiot that he was, he clearly didn't realise that he wouldn't be the only one taking advantage of Starscream's new position.

Laughable, really.

Starscream isn't laughing now.

Induction into the Decepticon ranks is something that sticks with you for life. Unlike the Autobots, who like to use harmless metallic stickers, the Decepticon insignia is forcefully and permanently burned onto your plating. Starscream managed to sneak by without being emblazoned for quite some time - but being second in command leaves nobody unmarked. Particularly since Megatron apparently decided that it wasn't enough to stamp one red-hot symbol onto Starscream's chestplate like all the other Decepticons. No, to prove his loyalty, Starscream needed_ two_.

It's a closely guarded secret that the most sensitive part of any Deception is his wings. Which, Starscream later thought as he tentatively laid cool, wet bandages against his new insignias, was probably why Megatron decided to have them burned there. Break him now, he thought sardonically, save effort later.

Four million solar cycles later and the only hilarious thing is that Megatron didn't even pick up on Starscream's filthy, traitorous tendencies until the war was long since over. And he's paying for it now.

He feels like he ought to be grateful that his spark is still intact - but his wings are fragging _burning_ and all other pain is irrelevant.

But he does thank the Allspark for the lake he crash-lands close enough to crawl to, and sink down past slimy aquatic organics and into silt. He lets his optics fade - nothing to see here. The cool water helps sting the pain into numbness and for a long time he waits with the current flowing past him before he thinks that maybe he can face moving again.

But dawn's breaking and perhaps it's best to stay undercover, hidden by the water, because no doubt the Autobots will recognise him and dare to attempt offlining him at his weakest.

He does carefully twist to inspect his wings now that the silt's died down, though. They're a mess, metal wrought with welts where parts of it have melted clean away. Where once the symbol was proudly displayed nothing remains but a few flecks of purple in the scarred surface. Starscream swears again and settles back against the rock surrounding the lake, letting his optics slide closed.

Decepticon insignias. Excruciating to administer, worse to remove.

* * *

Musings on the nature of Decepticon sigils. Starscream's from Transformers, of course. "All other pain is irrelevant" is a quote from one of Sushi's tweets.

Oh, and by "own personal amusement" I mean interfacing. : D


	33. 065 Sunset

**065 - Sunset**

There's not much time for moments like this any more. Chaos has reigned ever since that idiot Marluxia decided to show himself to the world. Every movement's been a furtive one, every stranger on the street a potential double-agent on any side but his.

Oh, sure, Marluxia's heroics saved the Unwanted.

But not _all_ of them.

Sunset's just shimmering over the curvaceous horizon as Saïx draws his arms more tightly around his torso. It's easy for Marluxia to gloss over the men and woman who laid down their lives for _his_ cause. He didn't lose the only man who ever understood his broken mind and ruined body.

A spark of insanity crackles inside Saïx' heart as he lays down the bunch of flowers and meticulously claws them apart. Marluxia couldn't possibly begin to understand, with his flimsy human lover, the deep emotional connection between two werewolves. Saïx laughs at the irony as the sound mixes with a scream and becomes something not quite human. He never wanted any part of this. He was fine with ears hidden in hair and a docked tail, because at least when he hid in shadows he was alive and whole.

Because Xemnas is dead, his body mauled and forgotten, and with him some part of Saïx has crashed and burned as well. There are to be no more nights of madness, no more claws at his back, no more sharp teeth against his quick-healing skin. Because when you're inhuman pain _means_ something, and every scar is a memory carved into your body.

Because Xemnas was shot down and shot apart, and with him Saïx wishes stronger than any desire for a meaningless law and the realisation of a moronic government to have been with him. But Xemnas stayed where Saïx ran because Xemnas was strong, and Xemnas was _stupid_.

And there are to be no more bloody kisses, no more fumbling matches of power play in the dark, no more watching the sun die every night over the ocean.

There's one scar Saïx will always remember in the crimson moonlight, drawn deep across his chest by the claws that loved him the most. Because when you're insane to hurt is to love, and to leave a permanent wound is to love eternally. Because Xemnas is dead and all that's left is the crude organic memory of his nails.

And Saïx watches the sunset in stoic silence until the moon raises claim on the glittering sky.

* * *

From my fanfic, The Unwanted. Although it's not ever mentioned, Xemnas was one of the members of Organisation XIII who was killed.


	34. 067 Meat

**067 - Meat**

You don't get out much since Xehanort stole his master's name and made you bottom of the pile again in a black leather cloak. Isa, the slimy dog, left as soon as he found somebody better to play with, so you take your amusement where you can. Since all the 'elders' are stiffer than wood (any variety), and the castle is as plain as can be, there's not exactly much to do. Until the new members start rolling in.

"_Fresh meat_!"

First there's the kid Demyx who clearly didn't get the memo about having no heart. He bumbles around his first day with inelegant idiocy, tries - and fails - to make friends with everybody, and ultimately simply irritates you all to the point of being about ready to hit him with a very heavy, very blunt object. But you see through Xigbar's irritable charade and drop a few hints in Demyx's ear. Success, you think when you see Demyx crawl in a state of blissful undress back to his own quarters late one night.

"_Fresh meat_!"

Then there's Luxord, with his crazy accent and card tricks. It's not long before he's beat the whole castle at poker and earned himself a fearsome casino reputation. Nah - he's too plain. Not for you. But you catch Xaldin staring as one meeting drags on and drop a few hints in Luxord's ear. Success, you think when you notice a stray hand wander to a hip a few days later as Luxord and Xaldin leave for their missions.

"_Fresh meat_!"

And then along flounces Marluxia, whose every flamboyant action screams egotistical _slut._ He's got a fine figure, you'll admit, but his blue eyes barely glance over yours before his gaze makes a beeline for the castle's other resident stick. The object of his inappropriate affections isn't impressed - but you're the one who catches the serious depth beneath Marluxia's idle persona and drop a few hints in Vexen's ear. Success, you think a few weeks later when an overheated argument blurts out some rather unexpected - and surprisingly dirty - bedtime secrets.

"_Fresh meat_!"

In at number twelve is Larxene, the Organisation's first woman. She's certainly a feisty one, but a little too cynical for your tastes. She makes a good friend, though, as you share titbits and tales of the other members, how each of them has a certain favourite they love to fuck senseless every other night.

"So what about you? You got a favourite?"

"Me? Nah. I ain't giving away my not-heart any time soon."

"_Fresh meat_!"

But then there's Roxas, silent and perfect, determined and innocent. You see through your own denials of Larxene's ever more personal questions, and drop a few hints in Roxas' ear.

Success, you think as Roxas rolls over a few nights later to bury his face in your neck, one hand digging beneath your ribcage for a tight embrace.


	35. 069 Sex

**069 - Sex**

This guy was obviously a slut. Picked him up at the bar a few hours ago, enjoyed some idle banter before moaning deep in the backs of each other's throats in some forgotten corner where tongues play and hands grope buttocks. Drove him home in the cooling evening with fingers idly tangling in long blonde hair, crashed his back against a wall and a door and a bed, rolled over and over in the sheets with the practised heat of two men who'd had enough sex to know how to do it right.

He didn't even know the name of the man currently holding his undivided attention and egotistical enough to conquer alone. Tomorrow he'd be gone, forgotten just like the rest - and neither of them had any qualms about that. That was how one night stands worked, hot and wet and loud and sparkling away by the morning's pale greeting.

Vexen Carlisle would not deny that he was promiscuous; perhaps for a chemistry teacher it was inappropriate to fuck total strangers at weekends but he rather suspected that some of his students were enjoying just the same sexual freedom. It wasn't as though he held any interest for their prepubescent bodies - he liked _real_ men.

Like this one.

As though the pink hair wasn't enough of a guarantee that the stranger didn't have a respectable job, the way he effortlessly explored Vexen's body was clear proof that this man was a full-time slut. He'd probably screwed more men than Vexen had had students. And really, that suited Vexen just fine.

Words weren't an issue at times like this, as the pinkette shrugged away his shirt to reveal finely toned muscle. Vexen reached up to drag his sweat-slicked palms over each symmetrical curve as his mouth found fuller lips and forced them open for another lustful kiss. He felt a moan reverberate in the cavern of their mouths, lost track of whose it was and never cared to waste precious brain capacity working it out. With legs drawn up to knock against thighs and fingertips sliding over deltoids to pull a heavy body down to share desperate heat, Vexen slid his tongue over a conveniently placed neck, eliciting another heady groan.

Established couples tended to say that sex was overrated, but Vexen wasn't a one-man kind of guy and maybe he liked knowing that if he wanted to get laid, all he needed was to go down to the bar to find some new sucker, no complicated emotional strings attached.

Seconds later his own shirt had been discarded off the end of the bed, and he knew it was the right thing to do to buck his hips upwards and grind his skin against the other man's. Pink hair tickled his arching chest as the pinkette dragged himself down, unbuckling a belt and unzipping a fly as he breathed, tantalisingly close, on Vexen's already prickling skin. His fingers tangled in the fluffy hair, urged the stranger further down to chew at a curving hipbone and dance fingers across already flushed skin. Tugging away restrictive clothes, the pinkette spent a few moments appreciating Vexen's anatomy before rising back up for a sticky kiss.

"Nice..."

"Much obliged," Vexen chuckled as the man pulled away his own jeans and something lacy and luxuriously stroked his hand along Vexen's hardening length. Their chests pressed together again, momentarily, and a rough sensation later Vexen was pressed up against the pillows, the stranger retracing his tongue's steps along his collarbone.

"Got condoms?"

Vexen nodded, fumbling as the pinkette's fingers found him again to pull two neat packets and a small plastic bottle from his bedside table's top drawer. He'd had enough bad experiences to know that such unpleasantness were necessary, and it looked like tonight's partner sympathised with the flash of a knowing smile and another deep, warm kiss. The tension was building up in Vexen's gut and he couldn't hold back another groan as deft hands readied them both.

"You or me?" The pinkette asked in a husky whisper as his palms slipped onto pale hips, began to steadily rock his body against Vexen's.

"Don't care," Vexen managed. The other man smirked.

"Suits me."

"Heh."

Vexen let the stranger slide his smooth, slicked hands along his thighs, pressing the backs of his legs against the pinkette's chest. He found a comfortable grip on the backs of broad shoulders, and pressed his neck back into the pillows in preparation as the stranger wasted a few more seconds in affectionate touches then pressed two fingers inside, gently probing. Vexen felt his toes flex, moaned with his lip clenched between his teeth and eyes fluttering shut. The other man chuckled a little, but it was breathless and needy.

"What are you waiting for?"

"Just enjoying the view."

And moments later he felt the burning brunt of a tip, the stranger's heat pressing against him in glorious, aching completion. He let a laugh escape from his lips as he rose up to meet the other man's hips, again and again, his whole body humming with the needy thrum of desire. Every muscle tensed with each new wave of passion, uncontrollable gasps escaping from his throat. He searched for a name to scream, found none, and resorted to incoherent groans as the stranger upped his pace, faster, harder, harder, brought together by no common ground and a desperate, carnal need for release.

And release was found deep within a flaring heat, with one final thrust that sent the pinkette toppling over the edge, Vexen soon following. Together, they sank down into sticky bedsheets, the stranger panting heavily as he prised his stiff fingers from Vexen's skin and settled into some comfortable pile of limbs and flushed skin. In the hazy, rose-tinted world of a fading orgasm, Vexen closed his eyes and imagined that he even knew the name of this man, that when morning came he'd still be around in a fluffy dressing gown and slippers with an elixir in the form of a good mug of coffee.

Eventually, every hot, rushed feeling fading into a comfortable warmth, the other man shifted a little against Vexen's body and let out a contented sigh.

"You're good," He stated as Vexen leaned over to dump the bottle back into the top drawer.

"Thanks," He replied, surprised that his voice was still working. Tomorrow he probably wouldn't even be able to walk, but it was Sunday and a sore butt was the perfect excuse to spend all day in bed. "You're not so bad yourself."

The stranger chuckled a little.

"Want my number?"

"Sure."

They reluctantly pulled themselves apart, Vexen remaining sprawled out on the bed as his partner found a trouser pocket and a phone. Vexen admired the other man's sleek body - not too slim, not too bulky. Vexen wondered how much time he spent in the gym to achieve those rippling muscles, but he certainly wasn't going to complain.

"You never told me your name," He said eventually.

"It's Marluxia. Marluxia Harcèlle."

"French?"

"On my father's side." Marluxia explained. "And you?"

"Vexen," Vexen said, and left it at that.

"Succinct," Marluxia said. "I like it. Shower?"

"On the left."

Marluxia nodded, collected up his discarded clothes, and disappeared into the bathroom. Moments later Vexen heard the splash of running water. He settled back into the mattress, stretching out his legs as he waited for Marluxia to return. _Marluxia._ Flamboyant and superfluous.

Vexen liked it.


	36. 071 Duty

**071 - Duty**

He knows it's his duty to hate you. It's just so _hard_. He knows that in his fraction there's no room for compassion, he knows that to lead the runaway-military to victory he must have no weaknesses for his enemies to exploit. Particularly you. He knows that as second in command his record must be flawless, traitorous intentions aside. Deceptive by nature, he knows that your kind is only to be used and thrown away when whatever meaningless task is completed. He fully understands that for a united homeworld his kind must rule and yours must serve. But when he looks at you it's so hard not to blur the lines that cannot ever be crossed.

And you know that you're programmed to protect life whereas his only purpose is to break it down. And you know that he's the bad guy, the enemy, the one that destroys with no care for the consequences and betrays without a second thought. But when you look at him it's so slagging difficult to keep hold of the values that stop anyone in this war from going insane. And you know that you shouldn't, couldn't, can't; it's your duty keep people like him away from the innocent and helpless, but when his metal armour chinks against yours it's so hard, so painfully hard.

And knowing that if his leader finds him he'll be dead in seconds before he can carry out any grandiose power play makes him quiver with tension, and not knowing what your friends would do if they ever discovered that you were courting the enemy makes every part of your body stiffen in fear.

And knowing that it's his duty to fire a sonic blast in your face makes him hold your miniature body all the closer in the silent nights he dares whisk you away, and knowing that it's your duty to call the alarm and keep away makes your fingers clench ever more desperately against his back.

* * *

Twenty points of awesome if you can guess who these two are :P


	37. 073 Saving

**073 - Saving**

Holy shit, Lumaira thinks as he sinks down to the kitchen floor and grips L'Erena's hand with his own sweaty palm. Perspiration is already beading along his forehead, seeping into his fluffy hair. There's blood. Not his blood. On his shirt.  
Holy shit.  
And he thought that Even climbing out of his grave, dead looking and hazy-eyed, was bad. Even with every self-depreciating remark, every sullen, morose glance in his direction, was not bad. Even was a piece of chocolatey cake when it comes to the fact that Lumaira is hiding out in his kitchen wishing the power could come back on, or that Mum would come home, or he'd wake up to blissfully realise that there weren't any zombies banging on the windows after all.  
There's a sound like nails scraping down a blackboard and Lumaira squeals, clinging to L'Erena tighter still. She sighs a litte - somehow, she's worked out how to turn her the half of her brain that controls fear off. She's got a rolling pin in the hand that's not steadying Lumaira, ready to fend off attack.  
"I told you," She says quietly. "I_ told_ you Even was undead. We had plenty of time to prepare for this."  
Lumaira squeaks and presses his back even further into the cupboard door he's hiding against. "Don't say that," He insists. "Even's different. He can think for himself, for one."  
L'Erena dares to peek over the counter and out into the night beyond. There's a few in the back garden now, ambling menacingly towards the kitchen window. She quickly ducks down again.  
"We need to move somewhere safer."  
"We can't move!" Lumaira shrieks, voice shrill and horrified. "Are you _insane_?"  
"What about the hospital?" L'Erena suggests, prising her hand from Lumaira's to scuttle into the hallway. He doesn't follow; instead he curls his arms tightly around his knees to stop himself shivering. He's absolutely terrified. He read somewhere that when things like this happen - not that things like this are _supposed_ to happen at all - some kind of hidden instinct kicks in so that people can survive even the harshest of conditions. He thinks that his brain conveniently forgot about that instinct. L'Erena's planning and adapting already: he's just cowering on the kitchen floor on the verge of wetting himself in fear.  
Moments later, L'Erena returns with a grim look on her face.  
"Help me board the windows."  
"I can't move!" Lumaira wails, ducking his chin to his chest. "It's scary, I want to go _home_."  
"You are home." L'Erena sardonically replies. She's not amused by her best friend's failings, not when their lives hang in the balance and rhythmic slaps of rotting skin against window panes has faded into the background noise.  
"You know what I mean," Lumaira says miserably, but L'Erena's moved on already in the darkness, calculating again. He hears the jingle of keys.  
"I can drive," She says. "If we can get to a car, we can drive up to the hospital."  
"There's _dead people_ at the hospital!" Lumaira exclaims as she drags him up to the front door and swiftly unlocks it.  
"There are dead people _everywhere_."  
Lumaira blanches and pulls away from the shorter girl.  
"Give me a second."  
"Oh, for God's sake, what now-?"  
Lumaira runs to the downstairs toilet and is violently sick in the basin. He catches himself in the mirror and nearly screams. He looks like he's dead himself, pale and bedraggled, blood all over his shirt.  
"L'Erena," He calls carefully, willing his voice not to crack. "L'Erena, I'm scared."  
He lifts one hand almost on autopilot to brush against the mirror. It leaves bloody fingerprints and he's petrified like his own reflection has caught itself in a death-lock and won't let go.  
L'Erena storms in and suddenly stops.  
"Oh, Lulu."  
He stumbles drunkenly over to her and wraps his arms around her safely living, breathing body, and sobs into her shoulders.  
"I'm so scared..."  
"It's okay," She said, tangling her fingers into his hair. He feels the scrape of her nails against his skull, and the slight tingle of pain is comforting. "It's okay, we'll be fine. They can't get in."  
"I can't go out there," Lumaira manages after a sickly gulp. "I can't go out there, I'm terrified..."  
"Honestly," L'Erena laughs, and Lumaira realises that she's on edge too. Well, no wonder. She's probably scared out of her wits as well - but she's the kind of person that doesn't show her emotions. Lumaira couldn't keep a poker face if his life depended on it - L'Erena's the opposite. So he clings to her a little tighter, and says like he desperately hopes it'll be true;  
"It'll be okay."  
"Yeah," L'Erena says, and pulls away. "Now. Help me bar the windows."

It's two hours later that Lumaira's made hot chocolate, of all the surreal times and places, and they've dragged the mattresses upstairs down into the kitchen where they huddle together and wait for help or death to come. "Sun'll be up soon," L'Erena says, glancing out of the cracks in the windows where furniture couldn't be stretched out any further. Lumaira nods shakily. He's still just as scared. Since the zombies started arriving, he's been utterly useless. Mum was at hospital with Even and they're both still stuck there, but Lumaira hopes that they'd be better provisioned there to keep out the living dead. It feels weird to call them zombies. Zombies aren't this scary.  
"What do you think's going to happen?" He asks.  
"Dunno," L'Erena says. Seconds later, the slapping against the windows splinters into a crack. "Fuck."  
Lumaira screams and flings himself into a corner as the first shard of glass comes tumbling down over the work surface and lands next to his foot. L'Erena picks up her rolling pin and stands up.  
"Well, then."  
"L'Erena, don't, it's suicide! You'll be killed!"  
"What else can we do?"  
"I don't know!" Lumaira shrieks, daring for a second to reach up and see a hand poking through a gap and groping around on the smooth work surface. L'Erena studies it for a moment, then brings her rolling pin crashing down onto the fingers. They crunch and Lumaira nearly throws up his hot chocolate at the sound. L'Erena swings her pin again and one of the fingers rolls onto the floor. Lumaira whimpers at the sight of it, bloody and rotten.  
"Right," L'Erena says, grabbing the bread knife. "Looks like it's game on."  
Lumaira thinks it would be a better idea to lock himself in the bathroom and cry until somebody rescued them, but no doubt L'Erena would consider that undignified. They retreat into the hallway, where gory faces are peering through unprotected holes and hands are pressing against panes strained to breaking point.  
"They can't get in," L'Erena says. "Not yet, anyway."  
Lumaira hears cries and moaning screams from outside and backs, horrified, into L'Erena.  
"There's more of them," He says weakly. "I know it." "Well, there are a lot of dead people," L'Erena states blankly. She passes Lumaira the rolling pin and he's quick to give it back.  
"I can't do anything useful with that!"  
"Trust me, when a zombie's threatening your life, you'll fight back."  
Lumaira doesn't think that would work with him. He'd probably just whimper and curl into a ball in the hopes that somebody would save him before he had his brains ripped out.  
There's thrashing noises outside now. Lumaira takes back the rolling pin anyway and holds himself strong at the front door, hoping that the zombies would rather try their luck with the windows.  
"I'm scared," He says again, because if L'Erena knows that means he doesn't need to pretend like he isn't. He feels like such a coward. Well, he _is_.  
There's a yell outside that sounds distinctly human, and then a thump like somebody flinging themselves into the front door. Lumaira suppresses a scream and readies himself for the onslaught.  
"_Let me in, you wankers!_"  
That.  
That didn't sound like something Lumaira expected a zombie to say. L'Erena seemed to have noticed too, in between hacking off intruding body parts, and glanced up at him.  
"_What are you goddamn waiting for?_"  
"Even!"  
He unbolts the door and a bloody body topples in. It's Even, alright. Well, most of Even. There are bits of him missing. Namely a large section of his stomach, half an elbow and parts of his shoulder. Lumaira screams at the blood and staggers back as the blood drains from his face.  
"It's okay," Even says, shutting the door. "I've worked out what's wrong with me."  
"You're in pieces?" L'Erena guesses, gesturing to all the gaping holes and one hell of a lot of blood.  
"I'm not dead." Even intones dully. Lumaira notices the cleaver in one hand, through the crimson sheen of blood.  
"Um."  
"I've come to save you."  
L'Erena and Lumaira stare at him in astonished silence. Even sighs, stomping through into the kitchen and leaving a trail of blood behind him. The stench pollutes the air, even as he sets the water running and washes the worst of it from his hands and face. Then he sets to work patching up all the wounds that ought to have been fatal with the shredded remains of his shirt.  
"We'll leave here in fifteen minutes," He says briskly as he works. "It's going to be interesting, but I'm pretty certain that I can keep you both safe."  
"Um." Lumaira says again, eyes still stuck to the cleaver, now lying beside the kitchen sink.  
"What?"  
"_How?_"  
Even wrings the worst of the blood out the last shred of his shirt and wraps it around his elbow.  
"How what?"  
"How did you get here?" Lumaira begins. "How did you survive having bits chomped out of you by the zombies? How come you've got a meat cleaver? How is it that you came back from the dead exactly the same and they're all _trying to eat us_?"  
"I'll explain at the hospital," Even says. "It's the safest place right now."  
"How come you're not _dead_?" Lumaira persists all the same, voice cracking. He's got a face Snow White would be proud of and he's quivering.  
"Oh, that." Even says. He picks up the cleaver. "Look at this."  
He swings with calculated precision and takes his own arm off at the elbow. It falls, twitching to the floor. This seems to shock even L'Erena, who steps backwards a little and nearly trips over Lumaira who's ducked behind her in total horror. Even sighs and picks up his arm, popping it quite neatly back onto the seeping wound. Then he flexes his fingers.  
"See?"  
"Holy shit." L'Erena says. The wound is already closing up, still a bloody mess - but still healing.  
"_Quod Erat Demonstrandum_," Even concludes, "These things can't kill me."  
Lumaira dares to peek out from behind L'Erena.  
"Oh." He says. "How...?"  
"I don't know."  
"Right."  
Even wobbles over to the kitchen table and sits down on one of the chairs. Despite himself, he looks weak, like he's alive but only just.  
"Are you okay?" Lumaira asks. With Even here, everything makes even less sense, but it's a more comforting sort of nonsensical.  
"I'm fine," Even snaps, testing out the muscles along his arm. "Just give me a few minutes to patch myself up."  
"So you can't die?" Lumaira says quietly as_ some_ sort of natural instinct kicks in, even if it's not L'Erena's, and he collects the first aid kit from under the fridge.  
"Well, not exactly," Even admits. "I can be killed. I just won't stay dead. I died a few times on the way here."  
"How did you know?" Lumaira asks. "I mean, that you'd come back again."  
"I didn't," Even plainly interjects.  
"Oh."  
Already, he's looking better. Lumaira bandages him properly, and sends L'Erena upstairs for a new shirt. It's too big for Even, but Even's still so thin it's painful and everything just hangs loosely from his bones.  
"We need to find some way of getting you to the hospital," He says eventually, standing up. He towers over even Lumaira, and in the cold nearly-dawn light with blood still sticking to his skin, he looks fairly intimidating.  
"Is Mum okay?" Lumaira suddenly interjects, reminded of his mother by Even's mention of the hospital.  
"She's fine," Even says. "The hospital is safe."  
"How did you get here?" L'Erena asks as Lumaira settles back into a small sort of assurance.  
"I ran."  
"From the hospital."  
"Yes."  
L'Erena whistles a little.  
"I don't think even I'm up to that. It's nearly two miles away."  
"I think it's best if we stole a car," Even concludes. "Although the bodies are a bit thick out there."  
"A bit," Lumaira says. He's peeped out of the sitting room windows and nearly twice as many zombies are out there now.  
"They must have followed me here," Even huffs, like it's some kind of personal offence.  
"Great." L'Erena says darkly.  
"Wait." Even suddenly looks up, and paces over to the window. Lumaira's still on edge, and he squeaks as Even brushes against him.  
"This is a terraced house,"  
"Yeah. So?"  
"We can go on the roof," Even says. "To the end of this block, where there'll be less zombies. Then we can get a car and reach the hospital. We appear to be in a bit of an epicentre at the moment."  
With the help of Lumaira's rolling pin and Even's steady persistence, they break through the plaster and tiling up onto the roof. Even's up first, helping Lumaira climb gracelessly through. He half expects Even's arm to come off again when he tugs it, but it holds strong and steady as Even helps him to balance up on the roof. L'Erena jumps out as elegantly as a dancer next to them and they find themselves watching the sunrise filter over the land with a warm, comforting glow.  
Lumaira risks a glance at Even in the better light. His hair's blowing in the wind, cleaver by his side. There's blood still, in no small quantity, but he looks healthier and stronger than he ever did before.  
"Right," He says, finding a good hold against the chimney and skittering onto the next house's roof. "Let's go."  
They leave the mass of zombies and carnage behind until they reach the end of the block, where there's a trashy enough car for L'Erena to jump start, and they reach the hospital, curiously devoid of zombies, in good time where Lumaira nearly tackles his mother when he sees her all well and good.  
As they settle into one of the waiting rooms - people have been coming and going as much as they dare now that it's light outside and the undead seem less menacing - Even stays by the corner and just as Lumaira glances up from his bundle of Best Friend and Mum, he notices an upwards twitch of the older boy's mouth that couldn't have been anything but a smile.

* * *

From my fanfiction, Blackbird, where Even kills himself and doesn't stay dead. A crazy idea I toyed with, having zombies, but eventually I decided against it for the main plot.


	38. 075 Vegetarian

**075 - Vegetarian**

And the best, the best thing, the abso-fucking-lutely _best_ thing?  
You used to be a vegetarian.  
Hah! World away from that now. The million miles you could run without hunting for a breath you flounced around the red stuff and now you hunger for it every waking moment. Flowers in the fringes of your vision, _blood_. Every next man's a victim.  
You like victims. You like to hear them. You savour every moan, scream, whimper, gasp, groan, hot wet whisper in the dead of night. Your teeth sink into flesh and you're sated. Drink your fill, go on, you dare yourself. Like you could resist the ironic metallic flavour of the crimson intoxicant just the way you can't resist legs spread wide for you and hair fanned out on the white bedsheets soon to be stained the colour that makes you lose control.

Laugh at your own pale skin, tip the fedora up a little for a smouldering look at the next man in your personal queue. The best ones live. There's one with that fluffy pink hair you'll keep forever in your room and he bites too with teeth so blunt it's laughable.  
You're always laughing.

Used to be a veggie, loved the salad option with a garnish and croutons. Now the best accompaniment is this curiously willing mortal and the lick of his sweet fluids in the heat of a passionate night.

* * *

Vampires. I wrote this as Larxene but if you like you can probably imagine it as anybody. Marluxia's enough of a slut for it.


	39. 077 Anything

**077 - Anything**

Blitzwing took unpredictability to the absolute extreme. This was one of two realisations that hit Starscream, second in command to the great and glorious Megatron, blah blah blah, approximately one megacycle after the triple-changer's induction into Megatron's personal guard. The second was that Starscream really, really wanted to get into Blitzwing's interface panels.

The problem was that since there wasn't just one Blitzwing to seduce, but _three_, Starscream was pretty certain that those panels were going to stay disappointingly locked closed and those icy, calculating (and occasionally angry or even completely batshit _insane_) red optics diverted from Starscream's plating.

Actually, he'd always preferred blue, but blue meant Autobots and as tricky as some Decepticons could be, Autobots were impossible to interface. That was also a pity - Starscream would have loved to get himself acquainted with the tight tailpipes of one of those sparky little compact cars, or perhaps even that rather nice broad shouldered fire truck... But Autobots weren't known for their promiscuity and even less their willingness to collaborate with a Decepticon. Of course, Starscream knew he could easily overpower any Autobot - but that rather ruined the atmosphere.

Which left a group of frankly unattractive Decepticons, Megatron whose processor was too far jammed up his exhaust pipe to ever let Starscream have any fun, Blackarachnia who was a brilliant accomplice but physically disgusting, and_ Blitzwing_.

Whose hard drive was so fragged he couldn't even complete a sentence without threatening to kill somebody or breaking into song.

Unfortunately for Starscream, this meant that Blitzwing was capable of absolutely anything. The only consistency between his personas was that adorable snappy accent, and pure terror of Megatron. Starscream could just be reading the signs of the Icy Blitzwing's body language when Hothead would take over and threaten to blow a neat hole in his chestplate. Or he could be fleeing from one murderous personality when Random would inexplicably appear, tackle him to the ground and tickle him until he nearly leaked coolant with laughter. It was as infuriating as it was arousing and that was very, in the kind of way that set his ventilation systems softly humming at half of the stupid, crazy things that Blitzwing said and did.

Fortunately for Starscream, _anything_ also appeared to include the most insane, furious, passionate, unpredictable and frankly_ brilliant_ interfacing that he had ever encountered. By far.

* * *

Starscream and Blitzwing from Transformers Animated. Blitzwing is a triple-changer - but this also means that he has three distinct personalities; Icy, Hothead and Random. Which makes for a very interesting relationship.


	40. 079 Yourself

**079 - Yourself**

You know, looking back at the old photo albums with nostalgic fondness, it's a wonder that you ever fell in love with me. It must have been pretty scary, moving into a tiny room in the middle of a towering block of flats, and suddenly being bombarded every day by a manic, hyper, perverted bundle of pink and flowery over-affection.

Particularly you being a self-conscious homophobic gay man, praying every night that the devil would release his grip on your heart and that God would open up his doors to you once again.

It must have been _awful_ for you, with me wandering in half naked when I couldn't be bothered to put all my clothes on in the morning. God, I was thick, but I didn't even think that maybe it was the hardest thing for you not to reach out and brush your fingers against my skin, that every time I busied over and took you by the hand or tickled you until you cried you were reminded of just how wrong you thought you were.

I didn't even think that you might have been gay. I was used to people looking at me oddly, and if I thought anything (although there's overwhelming evidence to suggest that I didn't think at _all_ until I was at least seventeen) it was just that you were spacey, no big deal. I didn't even think that _I_ might have been gay. I just hugged you a little bit too close because it felt like the right thing to do, climbed into bed with you in the night because I was bored and I knew you'd never kick me out.

I was such a flamer. No wonder my mother knew I'd turn out to be queer long before I even knew. And there was you, desperately lying when I joked about how great it was to grope girls because they're so soft and so lovely, crying yourself to sleep every other night and dreaming of everything you wished you could hate. You thought so much, you always do. I don't think enough. When I was fifteen my life was governed by my heart. And, well, my cock. But mostly my heart.

You frequently tell me that it still is.

Here's a picture of us in the park. I'm actually groping you, and this was when I was still only fourteen. In this one I'm pouting at the camera and I look like I'm about to kiss you. You look uncomfortable, but now I know that it's the discomfort caused by trying so hard not to enjoy the things you thought God hated. This is my favourite this year, taken by my mum. We're in your bed and I'm at least half naked and you're blushing like hell but there's this curve on your lips that's a genuine smile.

And here's the one we tried to stop your parents finding out about, where your hand's tentatively lying on my hip and I'm kissing your cheek in utter, blissful adoration. It's a way away from the others. For a long time there were no photo opportunities. After that first night, after we drew that thing that looked suspiciously like a penis and I kissed you until we lay snoring in each other's arms, there were a lot of problems. You thought you'd corrupted me. You thought that we were going to burn in Hell because you'd kissed a boy and loved every second of it. You thought that nothing was ever going to be okay, and there were so many tears that it nearly broke my heart.

Looking back at _these_ photographs with a knowing smile, it's a damned miracle that we managed to get through a single week of doing more than just hugging. Your misery returned, and all I knew what to do was invade your personal space with actions that were only borderline appropriate. I tried all the things that made me laugh, that could instantly cheer me up. It just made you worse. Because, you said, you hated the fact that I reminded you that you were a dirty homosexual - but that was all that I ever did. I was so painfully, painfully gay. And you hated the part of yourself that was homosexual, and it was everything that I was.

And it hurt me too, that you tried to hate me because of what you were. But I was young and brash and all I wanted was for you to love yourself the way I loved you. So I held you close every night even when you tried to kick me away, and kissed you until you stopped struggling, and loved you until you loved me back.

We pulled through. We pulled through and the summer was crazy, with trips to the beach and trips to the park and trips to each other's bedrooms and trips down each other's throats. This is my other favourite photograph - just you (except the pink blur of my finger in that corner), lazing on a sandy beach, wet with seawater and licking ice cream. Your lashes cover your eyes and you look so utterly, utterly gorgeous that it's hard to believe that in the first months of our friendship you truly hated yourself.

One of the best years was Year Eleven. I was fifteen and always pestering you for sex (I'm glad you held out. Losing our virginity on my birthday was the best present, ever), and you moved schools so I could discretely grope you against the lockers between classes. Everything was brilliant. You were still an introvert but you've always been an introvert, and I think it did you good to suddenly be in a place where you were gay and nobody cared and sure, we got some weird looks now and again - but that was normally because our hands were in inappropriate places, not because we were both guys.

Then came the one-year-anniversary we were amazed to reach. It was our summer of love. Sex was like a drug, we did it once and suddenly everything was an excuse to get naked and get dirty. We never talked about it - but I think we both thought it wasn't going to last. We'd been together a year and that was one hell of a long time when you were sixteen, and we didn't know how long we'd still be lovers. Even months later, the sex-craze wasn't over. We were both bogged down with school work and still we just wouldn't stop.

... it was probably detrimental to our lives, having so much sex. I lost weight, though, and I still laugh about that. Sex: the ultimate work-out.

The sex ended abruptly the day you left for university. The worst year of my life; I wanted to go with you to Cambridge, so hard it was more painful than an erection stuck in skinny jeans - and you wouldn't let me. You told me I had to stay at home and finish school, get my grades. I didn't _care_ about school, I just wanted you with me every night forever. It's a miracle that you kept loving me that year. I'd phone you up every night, talk for hours just to hear your voice, visit every weekend whether you had the time or not and more or less fuck you constantly until I had to leave. There aren't many photos for this year. You were miserable and so was I. We nearly ended our relationship then and there. I was changing, you said, and so were you. We needed to give ourselves room to grow.

The 'open relationship' just didn't work. I was terrified that you'd find another man and I'd still be stuck alone loving you forever; I tried a few hook ups, but... most of them I ended up walking out on or just cuddling all night instead. I didn't want their strange, unfamiliar bodies, their tentative and deceitful personalities - I wanted _you_.

Here's this photograph, a little blurry, of us the night I took the train to your apartment in the pouring rain, ran you over the moment you opened the door and cried and cried and cried. We're both smiling through the tears and our arms are locked firmly around each other's waists. It took months and months but we finally found ourselves in each other.

After that it's been patchy, like everything, but when you're only twenty three, eight years is a fucking long time and suddenly it seems stupid to give up because every day is a new record, whether we spent it screaming each other's faces off or madly screwing in bedroom.

This is my absolute favourite picture, one that over the years you've taken yourself. You're sleeping softly, curled up against a heavier body. He's leaning over you, stroking your cheek, with that same blissful smile on his full lips as so many years ago when he fell in love for the first time. He's talking to you, his deep voice hushed, because he knows that as long as he keeps his tone steady no confession could wake you.

* * *

A little journey into Marluxia's thoughts on Vexen from the S&M-verse. I sometimes struggle to convey the fact that their relationship is an incredibly volatile, patchy thing in this universe; I think that most of the reason they're still together is through sheer determination. Mostly Marluxia's.


	41. 081 Stable

**081 - Stable**

There were things about Lumaira that set him apart from the other boys and girls at school right from his very first day when his twenty-three year old mother dropped him off at the gate with a kiss and he tottered indoors, feeling so grown up in his red and grey uniform with his matching book satchel at his side. Like when he came to be collected, and Mummy was looking a bit awkward with the other parents, and Lumaira might have only been four but he didn't miss the odd looks that they were giving her. Like when they had to draw their Mummies and Daddies one day with finger paints and big fat pencils, and Lumaira doodled a fantastic Mummy but found himself at a loss as to who would hold her hand. He drew himself and the other boys and girls laughed because that was stupid, he couldn't be his own Daddy, and Lumaira cried because he didn't want to admit that he had to be because he hadn't got one.

And when parents' evening rolled around, with Lumaira dragging his mother up the steps in to see his teacher, it was scary sitting alone as she was quietly pulled to the side to speak in hushed tones. And she was smiling when she returned, but Lumaira knew a forced smile when he saw one.

Like meeting a_ real _Daddy when he went around to his New Best Friend's house one evening for tea, and looking up at this bearded figure as though he were no less than a mythical beast, and his Mummy being pulled away for a quiet word by her Mummy, and when she returned she was smiling softly and Lumaira might have only been four years old but he knew a forced smile when he saw one.

Like when Lumaira didn't go to school one day because Mummy wasn't feeling well and he had to look after her because he was the man of the house and it was his responsibility even if he hardly knew the meaning of the word. The other boys and girls didn't get it, because where was Lumaira's Daddy to make his Mummy better? And Lumaira could only shake his head and say no, he really really didn't know.

Lumaira had always known that he was different, but for a long time he failed to see the significance of his Mummy being the youngest parent at the gate, frequently mistaken for his older sister, or the reasons behind the absence of a man in their little house. Well, he had Grandma and Granddad who often helped the two of them out to keep their household on its own legs, so what was a Daddy for? Why did all the other children have one and he didn't?

"Why don't I have a Daddy?" He asked once, a few years later. He'd been playing a card game with his Mummy, because they couldn't afford a telly, and she'd leaned over and pulled him onto her lap.

"You're a big boy now, Lulu," She said softly as she laid her hand of cards down. Yes, yes he was - he was nearly seven now, and that was a big age to be. "I think you're ready to know where you came from now."

Lumaira nodded, turning restlessly around in her arms to toy with her blonde hair that always hung over one shoulder, just like so.

"You do have a Daddy," She said, righting him and jumping him a little on her lap so he'd sit still. "He's just not here any more. He left before you were born."

"Why did he leave?"

Lumaira's mother looked at him with a saddened expression, one that he knew said she'd been wondering the same, too. And he was only six, but he understood not knowing why somebody would do such a thing, so he held her tight when she blinked away tears and whispered;

"I don't know."

And suddenly Lumaira understood the snippets of gossip that he heard, about Miss Arkenstone who should be Ashamed Of Herself, for Having A Child So Young, and how could she expect to bring up Lumaira alone with No Father? And it upset him. Mummy was special, and the best Mummy that Lumaira could ever wish for - and how dare they speak about her like that! But Lumaira was only six even if he was nearly seven, and it wasn't his place to be involved, only swept along by the tide of stigma and rumours as uselessly as a feather in the breeze.

When he was nine, Lumaira couldn't sleep one night and tiptoed downstairs only to find the kitchen light already on. He saw her sitting at the little table staring at a framed photograph and crying. He hurried over and held her close because he'd long since learned that his Mummy couldn't always keep herself together alone, and with the absence of a father the task fell onto Lumaira. People called this unfair on him, but he didn't know any different. He'd always known that Mummy wasn't some kind of infallible God like some of the children seemed to believe their parents where, just another person who sometimes stumbled and fell and needed somebody to patch her up.

But the photograph was something different. Lumaira recognised the solid jaw, the dusty brown hair and the full pink lips, of course - he saw every feature in himself every day at the mirror. But this wasn't him, this was older, taller, darker, with a little scrap of a girl Lumaira knew was his Mummy before he was born.

"That's Daddy, isn't it," He said.

"You look just like him," Mummy whispered, brushing her fingers over the photograph. "I miss him so much..."

But Lumaira had seen all the ways that his father had affected their little family, from the long hours Mummy had to work to pay the bills or the money that her own parents had given her just to afford her own house for Lumaira to grow up in to the stigma he suffered at school for not having a Daddy and the confusion he faced as he grew older and realised the need for a father figure in his life. And he set his jaw, shook his head, and held her tight.

"If he left you, he's a horrible man and he doesn't deserve to be missed."

That had made Mummy cry even more, but she did look a little better for herself as she dropped Lumaira off to school late the next morning on account of oversleeping together in her bed, tangled in a warm and familiar embrace.

* * *

It's nearly midnight when Even shifts a little and asks into the darkness,

"Hey, Lumaira. How old is your mother?"

Lumaira, who was very nearly almost asleep, groans and cracks open a useless eye.

"Huh? Oh, she's thirty-five this year."

Even considers this.

"That's kind of young, isn't it?"

"She was nineteen when I was born," Lumaira tells him.

"I guess your Dad..." Even begins uncertainly and trails off. He's not really asked about Lumaira's little family, which consists of himself, his mother Naminé, and occasionally L'Erena who Lumaira appears to see as a sister of sorts.

"He left," Lumaira interrupts, his tone lowering a little. Lumaira doesn't really do angry - he does scared, desperate and unhappy to a hundred perfect degrees, but anger doesn't seem to be an emotion he's capable of experiencing. But this is the closest Even's ever heard him get.

"Oh."

"I've never even met him," Lumaira continues, and it's faint but it's there - the clench of his blunt fingernails against Even's back. "As soon as he found out that Mum was pregnant he just walked out and she never saw him again."

"That isn't fair," Even says, agreeing with Lumaira's tone of voice.

"I sometimes wonder what I would do if I ever saw him again," Lumaira whispers. His voice sounds a little choked. "I mean, he hurt Mum so much that even I felt it. I would want to say that we're happy and we don't need him any more. But I don't know if I could."

Even had always grown up in the average, two parent nuclear family. His home life had been perfectly stable but suddenly being part of a new family - one where the most senior man of the house was a fifteen year old boy - made him see things in a very different way. Lumaira and Naminé interacted so differently to the way Even ever saw his own mother, as though Lumaira was Naminé's equal and most importantly her friend, not just her son. Even can't really put it into words but Naminé isn't just there for her son, he's there for her too.

"That's why." Lumaira continues suddenly. "One day Mum saw me getting picked on by the other kids for not having a Dad, and it really upset her. She came into my room that night and sat on my bed and cried and cried and cried. And that night I swore that I would never, ever leave anybody who needed my help to struggle alone. Just because I look like my Dad doesn't mean I have to be anything like him."

And Even nods, not sure what to say, but as he settles down, he suddenly sort of understands just a little why Lumaira's too kind of his own good, why Lumaira came to his funeral even though they'd barely spoken before, and why Lumaira is still holding Even close and stable in the depths of the night.

* * *

From _Blackbird_. Naminé was a single teenage mum and suffered a lot of stigma from other parents when Lumaira was in primary school (ages four to eleven). A lot of Lumaira's personality is down to the fact that he never really had a father figure in his life (with the exception of L'Erena's father), and the emotional pain of knowing that his own father never loved him or cared for him. It's also, curiously, why his hair is pink - he dyed it because he couldn't stand knowing that it was exactly the same colour as his father's hair. In fact, the only things that Lumaira likes about his physical appearance are traits he's inherited from Naminé. Lumaira often claims he doesn't hate anybody - but there is one exception to that, and that's his father.

This is a little jumbled, but I wasn't really sure of how to get all my thoughts in and still relate it back to the prompt.


	42. 083 Stroking

**083 - Stroking**

There's a way that she claws her fingernails down his back that makes him press his face into the pillow and wonder, oh God, what amazingly good deed he did to find himself dating an ex-prostitute and loving every insane, frenzied second of it. And there's something in the songs that she hums as he loses control that has him rolling sleepily over to hold her close in arms that really do care. Her habit of wandering around the house in nothing but a gaudy pair of girl boxers and a tank top that really isn't enough to cover the curve of her breasts is sexually adorable, and the massages she gives him as he works have the power to melt him into total submissive relaxation. There's this perfection in her body and this curious innocence to her mind that enthrals him as much as his scientific experiments.

She calls herself Lulu and she won't tell him if that's her given name or just a made up string of syllables she thought sounded pretty the day she gave up her body for a room and board in the night. But then again in this world it's impossible to know for sure the origin of a name; there's nobody who can't be identified with a number: names come and go. But she calls herself Lulu so he does, too, and that's the name he whispers in the morning or calls when he comes back from some tiresome meeting over in the next district.

And there's a way that she brushes her fingertips across his chest and rocks forwards onto her tiptoes to nip a kiss at his lips that can stop any thought track, screaming, in its tracks. And there's a way that she strokes her palms over his stomach as she offers him only an apologetic look and a thickly accented question as he tries to explain the basic principles of quantum mechanics that he can only forgive and perhaps let the secrets of the universe lie for a few nights longer.

* * *

A crazy idea I had some time ago about femwhore!Marluxia and geniusprofessor!Vexen in some kind of weird dystopia where everyone has numbers instead of names and stuff like that.


	43. 085 Cigarettes

**085 - Cigarettes**

Lexaeus drew a deep breath and made it a long one. He was offered a disapproving glare by his smaller companion, but he paid it no heed.

"I could kill you right now."

The other man, dwarfed by the gargantuan wings sprouting from his back, laughed. It dripped with cynicism.

"And have a neat hole blown in your head? I don't think so."

Lexaeus leaned back in the metal chair. It creaked. He could snap it, he thought idly to himself. Rip each flimsy steel rung apart in an instant. He could lift this heavy table and easily tear it from the bolts that stapled it to the floor. In another world, he'd be a superhero.

"I only said 'could'."

These handcuffs, too. Useless. Lexaeus could pull them into pieces without even breaking a sweat. The smaller man smiled, settling back in an identical chair.

"I like you."

"That's a first."

The other man stood, wings trailing elegantly behind him. How did he survive, Lexaeus thought lazily. They could do nothing but get in the way, and white - such an impractical colour. The dull brown of his own inhuman characteristics were far more earthly. But this man didn't look as though he liked to get his hands dirty.

"Yes."

He reached over and flicked the ear that always flopped over a little, ever since Lexaeus had had a narrow escape from a shot gun. He was surprised that he didn't retaliate - but his mind was calmed by the last fragments of smoke gently rising from the end of his cigarette.

* * *

The room was smoky and Lexaeus didn't give a damn. When he'd started stealing cigarettes from the backs of stores, squireling them away in secret for consumption later, he didn't know - or care. He had his favourites but any tobacco would do the job, calm his rage and leave a more mathematical, rational mind in its wake. He'd light a new cigarette from the dying embers of the last one, stay up late until he fell asleep with one still clenched between his teeth - Zexion didn't approve.

But Zexion hardly approved of anything. The little angel was as adorable as he was obstreperous, arguing his fluent tongue around or through any situation. But Lexaeus knew how to crack him. All it took was to pull him easily onto his lap until those ridiculous fluffy wings curled luxuriously around his shoulders and let out a smoky breath against his neck, whisper a few little eight-syllable words...

The thing about Zexion was that he was tiny. Not short, just small in every dimension bar intellect. Lexaeus could lift him with a single hand, easily, and throw him over his shoulder to carry him up to bed. Zexion needed a lot of carrying places, the poor little angel. He had a tendency to fall asleep over books - not that Lexaeus was much better with the television - and it seemed to be the werewolf's duty to tuck him up under a heavy duvet in amongst a hundred pillows and a little herbal essence to help him sleep more comfortably.

He was so delicate, like if you poked him he'd just disintegrate. But that was one of the many things Lexaeus loved about Zexion, that every touch had to be feather light and every movement meticulously slow. And that was the wonderful thing: the briefest of contact could leave Zexion helplessly flustered, the gentlest brush of skin to skin, the mere warm current of a cigarette-infused breath.

Zexion always complained. Always disapproved. Always told him to quit. But Lexaeus would only smile to himself and remind Zexion that if he could quit smoking, there were quite a few other things he could have given up instead.

* * *

From my fanfiction _The Unwanted_. Lexaeus is a werewolf and chain smoker, Zexion's a rather prudish and brilliantly intelligent angel. Both are American.


	44. 087 Cemetery

**087 - Cemetery**

Months, it's been. Maybe a year. That makes eleven and if you asked after an Even in Radiant Garden, all you'd get is blank stares and apologetic responses. _Months_, he's been. Whisper the name Vexen anywhere and nothing more than a shrug and a grunt would come your way.

He's visited the tomb of the noble warrior Lumaira, found a gravestone among millions with the name L'Enera carved forever into granite. There are still flowers, wilting but still _flowers_ at the side of the road where Myde perished beneath a speeding car. Sometimes he spends hours in these places of rememberance, jealousy clawing into his flickering image even as his existence itself waxes and wanes, waxes and wanes. He is gone, and returns to a darkened city, a ghostly mirage disconnected and immersed in the living world.

It hits him, hits him like a physical blow, when he sees Braig's family laugh and smile under his immortalised eyes in a photograph on the mantelpiece. He's been dead for years but his wife still _loves_ him, and there in the world remain echoes of resonnance even from the dead in living memory. They're gone but they continue on and on as long as a single soul is left to remember them.

Sora and Riku talk about the Organisation sometimes over breakfast or nightfall. Saix, the man with the scar and the furious battlestance; they muse over his past life, his place second in command to Xemnas himself. _Axel_, the good guy on the wrong side, the saviour, the benefactor, the _friend_.

Even was not a socialite: his legacy was in his life's work, the science, the papers, the discoveries - and all destroyed in seconds by the swell of darkness he himself unleashed. Vexen scrabbled to make up for lost time but where are his books and manuscripts now, his journals of recorded experiments and observations, every precious second clocked and used wisely to amount to thousands of pages of neat, tidy writing to compensate for an empty chest and a sickening insanity clawing at his brilliant scientific mind?

Xaldin seems to have made quite an impression on several worlds' female populations and they may have been blind to his fate but they still wonder where his is every now and again. Aeleus was remembered fondly by his peers in Radiant Garden, the Silent Hero - and of course everybody adored the little bookworm Ienzo for his childish charm and silver tongue.

He knows of his inexistence by keeping time with the obsessive compulsiveness of a madman. Sometimes days go by, weeks, and there is less than a slimmer of white where the light is refracted by an incomplete soul but he always comes back to a broken half-death separated by bulletproof glass to his surroundings and painfully, acutely aware that never again will be remembered the man called Even.

Roxas and Sora are one and the same and Vexen met them both. They remember Axel, the charismatic pyromaniac, but not so the elusive scientist clinging with white knuckles and bony fingers to the last disintegrating vestiges of his own sanity. Sora's memories of Castle Oblivion were rewritten, Roxas' life in Organisation XIII overridden by the past of his other.

Nobody _remembers_ him and it makes him a ghost, crawling with growing dispair through graveyards and feeling every lick of cold wing whip through his nonexistent body. Sometimes over a puddle of water he can pull his fringes of being into a face, but nobody is there to see as seconds later, he dissolves again into nothing but a haze of a mind so desperate to simply_ be_.

It's okay to die as long as somebody remembers you, because you made your mark on the world, because you still _exist_ in them, in growing history and lasting legacy. But nobody remembers Vexen. His life, even his non-life, amounted to nothing.

Sometimes he pretends to wonder why a weak coward such as himself managed to lash against the darkness and keep his original body if not his heart. By all means he should have been destroyed. But he knows why: it was pure, simple desperation. The moment he died he would cease to exist and so he lived on as a nobody, lives on as a ghost.

Not even the clairvoyant sense him but he_ exists_, a flicker of distorted space and time slumped against the gates of the cemetery as though waiting for someone to take him home. And he will always exist even when the stone memorials crumble and a new dawn rises, through raw, aching, bitter desperation.

He cannot rest until he is remembered, and he will always be forgotten.

* * *

Yay, angst.


	45. 089 Butterfly

**089 - Butterfly**

You were a lonely kid. You never really had many friends in or out of school; people liked you when they needed homework to copy or needed that last episode of Star Wars recorded on video but didn't want to admit their secret passion. Sometimes your parents' friends' children came around to play but they always preferred your charismatic older brother and bouncy little sister. You played computer games in your room instead.

You were always extraordinarily tall. You hit six feet when you were fourteen, now you're three inches above even that hallmark although thankfully no longer growing. But as tall as you were, you were also thin, a lanky, freckle-splattered boy who was impossible to buy clothes for with awkwardly big hands and feet, knobbly knees and pointy elbows.

But appearance aside, you never really had friends. There was Snjór, but Snjór was a giant toy polar bear you never grew out of and didn't count.

But then there was the whimsical girl who moved into the house next door, the one with the huge overgrown garden and the hole in the fence that with a bit of wriggling, you could crawl through. She had a tree house, an actual otherworldly tree house nestled in between the huge, curling branches of the biggest oak at the end of the garden. But she hadn't got a telly, not even a black and white one and _everybody_ had a telly these days. She was different to everybody else. She had plasters on her knees and trainers held together with masking tape and things drawn on them; there were always leaves and twigs in her scruffy hair and she was beautiful.

Accounting for Snjór, she was your second love. From the moment you met her on the front door with a welcoming present the day she moved in, you adored her. She thought you were funny, with your boggle eyes and your nervous stutter, your hunched shoulders shyly trying to hide your immense height. And she took your big hand in her delicate ones and led you into her garden and helped you up into the tree house, and you spend the afternoon quietly getting to know each other until she grudgingly had to send you home.

You were two souls of separate realities; she was small and nimble, light on her feet with a gorgeous and natural smile; you were a towering one-hundred-and-eighty-two centimetre skeleton who lumbered places and spent most of your existentially multiplying outdoors time falling over. She just flowed with nature, could trick tiny birds into landing in her hands; when she walked through meadows not a single flower would be crushed. Conversely, your fingers could fly with the same grace over a keyboard, but your presence alone seemed to disturb the nature she glowed so beautifully in.

Of course, you never had the guts to ever confess to her your romantic feelings because she had literally thousands of friends and you were _Vexen_, shy and introverted, but you truly treasured every day you called to your parents that you were going out to play and crawled through the gap in the fence to find her in her mysterious and beautiful garden.

One afternoon in late spring, a few months after your fifteenth birthday, you scrambled beneath the overgrown hedge and through the broken planks of the fence to find her steadfastly popping leaves into jam jars and covering them with cotton held on with red rubber bands.

"What are you doing?"

She grinned at you and you blushed and shuffled your feet the ways you always did.

"I'm doing magic."

"Magic doesn't exist," You promptly replied with an air of scientific resignation. She still believed in fairies as much as you tried to dissuade her, and it seemed that magic was no exception.

She thrust one of the jam jars into your hands as there was a call from her parents inside the house.

"Trust me. Gotta go!"

She dashed back indoors and with meticulous care you pushed the jam jar back through the fence and followed, dusting it off and leaving it on your windowsill.

You never saw her again. The next day, you climbed through the fence again to find the garden dank and lifeless, knocked on the back door - but when you peered through all the furniture was gone, all the pictures you'd only briefly seen taken down from the walls. You ran around, horrified, and your heart hit rock bottom when you saw the _For Sale_ sign planted in the lawn on the front drive. She was gone and suddenly your world seemed so much colder.

"_Why didn't she tell me?_"

"Must have forgotten." Said your older brother.

"Didn't care," Said your little sister.

"Didn't want to upset you," Said your mother.

"Didn't want you bugging her to keep in touch," Said your father.

You cried for days in Snjór's arms, because you were fifteen and you'd just lost the best friend you'd ever had and your heart had been broken and you were never going to see her with her perfect blue eyes and her soft dusty brown hair or hear her radiant laughter again. All you had left was a jam jar half filed with leaves and litter with cotton.

You didn't notice the caterpillar until it was clinging to the fabric, upside down - and then you watched it for hours until it made a perfect cocoon around itself and disappeared for a week, maybe more. You checked on it every morning and every afternoon after school until the pupa cracked open and a remarkable creature blossomed out, wings drying against the evening sun. So very carefully, you lifted the jar up and took it outside to prise away the rubber band and open it up for the butterfly to flutter out and around your head before disappearing into the sunset.

* * *

Some crazy kind of alternate-universe Blondes where Vexen had a crush on Marluxia's... older sister? Who the hell knows. But let it be known that I love awkwardlytallteen!Vexen.


	46. 091 Explanations

**091 - Explanations**

"It's simple - the warm, moist prevailing winds approach from the south west, here, and are forced to rise by the mountains. As they rise, they cool until they form dew point and condense, creating rain. That's why it rains on this side of the mountains and there's a water surplus on the west coast. Now, the air has lost the water vapour so it's dry as it moves across the mountain and falls down the other side. That's why this side is called the rain shadow, because there's no rain, and the east coast has a water _deficit_."

Vexen lifted his head from the immaculate highlighted diagrams he'd spent the last ten minute drawing out to give his companion a critical look.

"Got that so far?"

Marluxia, dutifully thoughtful and gloriously naked, wiggled his legs as he drew his pretty pink tongue unwittingly sensually along the length of his pen before sucking suggestively at its tip. Vexen forcefully quashed all wandering thoughts as Marluxia rolled onto his stomach and studied his diagrams, pen pressed firmly against his bottom lip and tongue toying with the end's plastic and suddenly incredibly phallic curve. Then the boy in question removed the pen, waggled it between his fingers for a moment, and lolloped onto Vexen's body, firmly wedging his warm mass against Vexen's.

"Could you repeat the last part?"

"Which last part?"

"Oh, everything after _warm and moist_."

* * *

From the S&M universe, where Vexen tries to help Marluxia study and... fails. Anybody who knows me on DeviantArt will be able to relate this to Revision Techniques. And anyone who watches too much TFA will know that the last three sentences is a homage to Bumblebee and Zippy- I mean Blurr. Marluxia and Vexen are most likely fully aware of this.

Lolloped is a word, I don't care what you say.


	47. 093 Loser

**093 - Loser**

"Mom, I'm off to hang with the gang, kay?"

"Sure thing, sweetie. Be back for dinner."

"Yeah, sure, whatever."

Lumaira rolls his eyes as he stuffs the last of his things into his backpack and heaves it onto his shoulders. It's heavier than usual today, full to bursting point with secretive items that not even his family know he owns. He pulls on his designer sports sneakers with the flashy tick on the side and pulls his long, pink hair into a fashionable knot just off-centre at the back of his head. Grabbing his keys on the way out, he runs down the road until his house is out of view. Then he changes his direction, doubles back along the next avenue over.

He's not going to hang with the gang. He told them that his mother was making him do chores today, _bitch_, and if anybody tried calling he'd get it in the neck. He's perfected the technique now, throwing friends and family alike off the trail. Now he's taking the shortcut through the woods and out into the upperclass end of this American suburb, then dashing down wide roads lined with SUVs and kids playing soccer until he reaches a sprawling villa at the very end of the road, protected by a high wall and a good four hundred metres of front yard.

He pokes the buzzer a moment after stopping to catch his breath, letting his rucksack fall from his shoulders onto the floor.

"Hello?"

"It's me, Lulu. Let me in."

There's a click and the gates creak open on hydraulic pistons that Lumaira knows more about than he'd care to admit. He waits until their entire girth is wide open so he can make a flamboyant entrance, strutting because he knows nobody's looking. He's a curious species, Lumaira.

Running out from the building's front door is a distant figure, yelling and waving as the gates clang behind Lumaira. Blonde hair, long and dead straight, identifies the other boy - Even Frost. Close behind him is the mansion's heir, a little Mexican boy with a rare and harmless condition that bleaches his hair white and dyes his bespectacled eyes gold. Even's scowling like always but Xehanort looks genuinely pleased to see him as he almost bowls over Lumaira with a tight hug.

"You came!"

Lumaira stifles a snicker at that because if he was with his other friends everybody would be making crass innuendos about Lumaira and just how easy must be to make him _come_.

"Course I did. Hey, Even."

Even and Lumaira have a love-hate relationship. Literally. At school, Lumaira never leaves him alone but of course they're enemies there so the attention is always harassment and frequently sexually orientated. At their secret meetings, Lumaira's shyer and Even reciprocates; they kiss around Norty and hold hands while watching films but there's no groping or licking that happens at school.

After Lumaira introduces himself to Even's lips, the three boys wander back inside.

"You got the goods?"

"Of course."

The way they act you'd think they were dealing in drugs but this is a different black market - the market of the geeks. Nobody knows but Lumaira _is_ one, he just happens to be pretty and popular and largely brilliant at pretending he's stupid. He'll miraculously pull honours in his final exams this year like he does every year, and it's not because he's stupendously lucky or bribed his teachers with illegal sex, it's because he's a nerd.

Xehanort is extortionately rich and they all make good use of his gigantic flat screen TV and every games console, ever, as Lumaira pulls the first shiny disk from his bag and slips it into the correct slot. They settle down on the plush leather sofa, Even on Lumaira's lap, as the housemaid brings them milk and cookies.

"Hey, Lulu. It's good to see you again."

Lumaira has long since kicked off his ugly sneakers and even more hideous track sweater, and he grins as he nabs the biggest cookie. He loves all of Xehanort's staff. They're all so friendly and when he's visiting they all have to do exactly what he wants.

"Uh huh, Miss. Thought you'd scared me off last time?"

She chuckles and slips away, leaving the trio to their games and magazines and Star Trek reruns - and Norty's got his hands on a Megatron, a proper bona fide Classic that only Even's allowed to touch because it's so precious and Lumaira's careless. They talk about math and chemistry, they talk about good sci-fi and bad sci-fi, they talk in Klingon until Lumaira gets stuck trying to ask for more cookies and then they play the latest PS3 game with graphics so good they could literally make you orgasm, and it takes hours but finally Norty finds a glitch and flips gravity upside down which is great until Even tries to go outside and flies away into the sky and gets killed.

And finally, migrated to the floor in a tangle of limbs, Lumaira glances at the clock and sighs. Even's staying over for a sleepover like he always does to get away from his constantly arguing parents and irritating little sister, but Lumaira's not allowed. He'd have to admit that he was with Xehanort and Even and living a secret double life as a geek.

"I gotta go."

"Already?" Even asks, and his tone is adorably huffy. Lumaira leans down and captures his bottom lip between his teeth before turning the gesture into a kiss that pops.

"Promised Mom I'd be home for dinner."

"Awh, but we're only halfway through the games..."

"I'll come over tomorrow."

"You got an excuse?"

"Sure, I'll think of one."

And Lumaira says his goodbyes, _live long and prosper_, and disappears out of the vast wrought iron gates. He skitters until he's in officially random space, then flops into a more relaxed amble, checking his watch for a moment before moving on at a decent pace. He sees Braig on the way home, grins and high fives him, then chats for a minute or two about the upcoming baseball game that he really couldn't care less about but couldn't admit, and moves on.

For the millionth time, he contemplates his lot in life. Ever since he was little, he'd loved all the science fiction films over the popular brainless action, always wanted to go to a games convention, played all the MMORPGs in secret after everyone else in the house had gone to bed. But he couldn't share those passions, only the more accepted ones - and even those, the rom coms, the pop music, the flowers, were all rather girly. But that endeared him to people. If they'd known he could actually speak broken Klingon? He'd die.

All until somebody found him with his hood up furtively looking at the Star Trek box sets in the corner of a shop none of his friends would be seen dead setting foot in, and recognised him.

"You like Star Trek?"

Lumaira's hand, halfway up to one cellophane-wrapped set, froze.

"N-no. Of course not. 'S for a friend."

The boy shuffled a little closer and spoke a jumbled sentence of seemingly random syllables, and Lumaira was almost embarrassed that he understood.

"_I don't mind_."

That had been Norty, and then suddenly there was another side of Even, too. That had been years ago and now Lumaira had two sets of best friends, two sets of relationships with Even - just about two sets of everything, and it was half scary half exhilliarating to be like a double agent, living a secret life.

It was funny, he thought as he kicked off his shoes at home and draped himself affectionately over his mother as he asked if he could go out tomorrow, too, to hang with his friends of course, and she rolled her eyes and grudgingly agreed, that everybody called Even and Xehanort losers... Actually, Lumaira couldn't disagree more. The popular kids were the real losers, trapped in social bondage that forced them all into identical, unoriginal moulds and cheap imitations of super models and sports stars.

But then again, Even and Norty did have an impressive record for being punched in the face a lot.

So who was the real winner? Lumaira, of course. He was cool _and_ square, popular and geeky, with somebody to harass at school and run off grinning as he screeched his glasses off and then kiss tenderly and softly at Xehanort's house when nobody was looking. If anyone found out they'd call him a loser, shun him from their social circles, but if only they knew that actually his life was about as good as it could be.


	48. 095 Rocket Ship

**095 - Rocket-Ship**

Xaldin immediately did not like the new recruit to Steelhaven from the moment he strutted into sight and onto the ship like he owned her. But orders were orders, and this man had already proven himself to be one of the most accomplished pilots and fighters ever seen at the Earth Guard. He was fit, at the very least, unlike that sycophantic rat two recruits ago who had unfortunately proved very useful on several trips to alien planets. Could lift his weight. Xaldin was sure that somebody would force him to to wipe that smug grin off his face.

As they clipped smoothly through Steelhaven's spotless corridors, they could occasionally pass staff of the ship and Xaldin would introduce them -

"Ah, Zexion. This is the latest member hauled in from the Academy. On the fast track to the highest chain of command, I've heard."

"... Pleased to meet you."

"The name's Marluxia."

"Pretentious. It suits you."

Or as they passed the canteen;

"Demyx, this is Marluxia. He's the new guy."

"Hi! I'm Demyx and everybody hates me. How can I help you?"

"Letting go of my hand would be nice."

"Oh. Sorry. Heh."

Until they reached the bridge where the main command was focused. Xaldin didn't intrude on their flight preparations, merely pointing out men as they passed.

"Captain Ansem, the weaponry officer, Xigbar, Larxene and Luxord are our fliers... where's Vexen?"

"No idea. You know what he's like."

And it was quite reassuringly funny to see Marluxia's face as he turned at a gruff "I'm here" and paled significantly at the sight of a gargantuan man with cold, acid green eyes and a colder expression bearing down on him. He skittered away momentarily then quickly regained himself.

"What's an alien doing on this ship?"

"Vexen," Xaldin said rather smugly, "Is our prime medical officer. He's one of the greatest assets to this ship."

Marluxia, who still seemed to be under the impression that if you saw an alien, you shot it, recoiled a little as the alien slipped past him with a flick of impossibly long blonde hair and a chilling glare.

"He's a little cranky," Xaldin whispered, and led Marluxia on.

* * *

It took two weeks for Marluxia to stop wincing every time he saw Vexen in a corridor or scrunched up in the lifts not built to accommodate his whole nine feet of height. It was only then that he tentatively tried to strike up a conversation -

"So what planet do you come from?"

- And was completely ignored. Vexen swept around in constant disdain, instantly rebuking any attempts at hospitality. They didn't jokingly call him the Ice Maiden for nothing. But halfway through a test flight to one of Earth's outposts in the next solar system over, Marluxia realised something quite infuriating.

Vexen, tall and slender with deft, elongated fingers and gorgeously bright eyes, was actually terribly attractive.

* * *

Marluxia tried asking the other crew members about Vexen, from time to time. In lifts, or during meals in the canteen. When he passed people in corridors and they had nothing better to do. The answers he got were vague, dismissive.

"Oh, he's been here ages. Four decades, something like that."

"Ever wonder why he's skin colour even though he's an alien? He's like a chameleon. He can change colour. Pretty whack, huh?"

"Picked him up on some planet years ago. He still hates us even though _he_ was the one trying to get onto the shuttle."

"He's a total dick. Flouts all the rules just because he's an alien. Says stupid things like it's part of his religion to wear that green sash when he wasn't even wearing clothes when we found him. But we don't know anything about his species, so we can't actually prove him wrong."

"I think he's lonely. I mean, he hasn't seen any of his kind ever since we picked him up. His planet's off limits to humans."

"Are you kidding me? He's just got a huge stick up his ass. If he's even _got_ one."

"I was part of the crew when we found him. He used to flash colours a lot back then. I think that's how he communicates or something."

"He's got an inbuilt microphone and amplifier system because his hearing's shit and he can't hardly speak either. Crazy shit."

"His whole room is painted green. Weird. I think it's his favourite colour, or something. He wears that sash, too, you know? Exactly the same shade as his eyes, all of it."

Eventually, Marluxia got the idea that everyone else was just as in the dark as he was. There was only one person who knew the truth: Vexen. And somehow, he had to eke it out of him.

* * *

"You coming?"

They'd stopped off at another human colony, this time, and Vexen was typing with those perfect, slim fingers in the medical bay when Marluxia came to ask where he was.

"I'm not allowed in areas populated by humans," Vexen clipped briskly, standing to his full imposing height.

"Why not?"

Vexen rolled his wide, beautiful eyes.

"Shapeshifter."

"I didn't know you were one."

Vexen sighed, and suddenly his hand had melted into something else, something translucent and inhuman.

"Haven't you wondered why I look so similar to you?"

Marluxia opened his mouth to admit that, yes, he had, but Vexen interrupted him with a derisive sneer.

"They force me into this humanoid mould because my true form is too horrific for them to accept. Humans. Pathetic creatures. They hold so much prejudice on appearance alone."

Marluxia, meaning to say something intelligent, was stupid enough to actually stand in the doorway and ask;

"If you're a shapeshifter, why don't you look _more_ human? I mean, being nine feet tall and all."

Vexen shot him the most freezing glare he'd ever summoned.

"I have principles."

And he disappeared around a corner deeper into the Med bay. Marluxia was disinclined to follow him.

* * *

A year into his term, Marluxia suffered a loss. A violent conflict between an alien species refusing to compromise left them with no Captain and a badly damaged ship. The second in command, a blue haired man with scars lacing his body, took control until they could return to Earth.

Vexen was shaken. Marluxia happened to catch him exiting his quarters a few days after the incident, the first time he'd seen him on or off duty.

"Are you okay?"

"No," Vexen snapped instantly. "No, I'm not."

"He meant a lot to you?" Marluxia guessed. He'd not known Ansem well but well enough to know that he had been a brilliant captain and one of the few men high in command who totally accepted - and more importantly trusted - Vexen.

"The only reason I'm on this ship and not stranded on some desolate planet is because of him."

Vexen slumped onto the floor, his gangly - elegant - legs curling up above his shoulders. For the first time, Marluxia saw his colours change, every fibre of his body slipping into a deep, rich green. This reverie only lasted a few minutes before Vexen paled to his usual Caucasian hue. Then he stood, hand pressed to his forehead, and slipped back into his room. Marluxia, against better judgement, followed him into the darkness.

Not darkness. Pale, warm light.

"You glow in the dark."

"I believe," Vexen snapped, with little conviction, "That the correct term is bioluminescent."

"It's amazing," Marluxia said encouragingly.

"For you, perhaps."

"Is that how you express your feelings?" Marluxia pressed. "In colour?"

Vexen glared half heartedly back at him as the electronic doors slid closed.

"It's my language."

"Show me," Marluxia breathed. Vexen scoffed.

"I can't with these restrictive clothes you force me to wear."

Marluxia knew that it would be inappropriate to tell Vexen to remove his clothes, whether it was for the alien or not, but he couldn't just leave. He was just stuck standing in this alien's curious room where_ everything_ perfectly matched his eyes, and he could not move.

Eventually Vexen sighed and slipped his beloved sash from his shoulders and hung it with meticulous care on the nearest side board. The blazer, custom made, was the next to disappear.

"You're a strange one, Marluxia."

One by one, Vexen popped open the buttons on his shirt through which his skin was already shining. Somewhere in the back of his mind Marluxia realised that he was being given a strip tease by a frigid alien.

And it was turning him on.

"You're not like the others."

Marluxia's head snapped up from wondering if Vexen had any genitalia, and he hummed distantly.

"You don't have to, you know," He quickly established as the shirt crumpled to the floor. Vexen sighed, his eyebrows creasing.

"I want to."

"So a different colour is like a different word?" Marluxia asked, wanting to touch the shimmering skin. He felt perfectly insane.

"It's not like that at all," Vexen said, and it could have just been Marluxia's hopeful imagination but he sounded almost amused. "Colours have emotions but they combine to create the image one wishes to convey. We are not as secular as to have words."

"Say hello," Marluxia said, because he didn't understand. Vexen chuckled a little - actually _chuckled_ - and suddenly a ripple of colour spread from his stomach in a perfect circle, followed by others and more as though his skin was made of water and rain was pattering its surface. This display lasted a few seconds before more colours faded, drifted, swirled and mixed across Vexen's body.

Marluxia realised that he wasn't breathing and released the air in his lungs with a long, slow sigh.

"That's a long hello."

"I was introducing myself," Vexen, back to his plain old salmon, clipped. "Name, age, season of birth, current health and current mood."

He reached down stiffly and pulled up his shirt again.

"There's no point teaching any of you monochromatic humans," He sighed. "Any artificial colour system would be too crude and rudimentary for communication. And I highly doubt you can even think without reverting to your peculiar lingual division."

Marluxia hummed non-committally, realising the time and slipping with a quiet word away.

* * *

They picked up a new captain, a man with silver hair and cold eyes, a calculative xenophobe who followed every order to the letter and never read between the lines.

Few of the liberal Steelhaven crew appreciated his command. Vexen least of all. It was mere days before the alien walked in without his signature green sash - not part of the uniform code - and a little over a week until he was harshly reprimanded for momentarily showing his true colours in a fit of stress.

Marluxia looked on, helplessly, as Demyx accidentally spilled the secret that Vexen was a shape changer - and saw eye to eye with the medical officer the next day as he walked in barely a few inches above the others' heads. He muttered something vague about ease of interfacing with the ship's controls but Vexen had been nine feet tall for forty years and nobody was stupid enough to think that that was the truth.

Vexen became reclusive, became silent. There were no secrets as to why: Xemnas was often vocal of his disdain for an alien on the human ship. The crew could think what they wanted, but Xemnas was the authority and they could not complain.

Marluxia decided that Xemnas needed to be replaced.

* * *

The canteen, twelve hundred hours, Demyx and Xigbar. They were alone in the room bar a solitary figure moping in the corner. Poker-straight hair, now cropped neatly around his shoulders, hid his face. His entire visible body was green.

"Hey, Vexen."

Momentarily, the alien glanced up, skin paling through unhealthy shades to its usual colour.

"What."

"You should talk to someone, you know. If Xemnas is harassing you."

Vexen shook his head.

"Don't be stupid. He's just forcing me to toe your line."

Xigbar sighed a little as Vexen's head hung, green again, and turned back to his coffee. But it was Demyx who looped his legs out of the fixed stool and warily approached Vexen.

"Seriously, Vexen. I think it'd help if you to talk to people more. Yanno. Open up a little. You'll feel a little less alone."

Vexen huffed something inarticulate and appeared to ignore him, quickly vacating the area.

* * *

"Demyx told me to talk."

If Marluxia had been expecting any visitors to his quarters at twenty two hundred hours, it wasn't Vexen. He quickly ushered the man into his room, even if it was rather inappropriately tacked over with posters and family photographs and pin ups. Either gender, Marluxia had never been fussy.

Vexen cast his eyes over the collection and appeared curious.

"Interesting display you've got here."

"Spices the room up a little," Marluxia hummed, sprawling out on the bed. He'd had a long day of artillery guard and training, and was ready to collapse. There was no point trying to be seductive as he kicked off his shoes and tugged his shirt over his head - it was highly doubtful that Vexen even had reproductive organs, let alone ones compatible with Marluxia's.

When Vexen didn't reply, Marluxia rolled over and continued.

"You said you were going to talk."

Vexen offered him a withering glare as though to correct that actually, he didn't, but he soon gave up and took a seat in the room's only chair. Strange, Marluxia thought, how everyday objects dwarfed Vexen even though he was one of the tallest men on Steelhaven.

"Your race knows precious little about my homeworld."

"What's it like?" Marluxia prompted. Vexen swallowed a little, then clipped;

"That would depend on which time period you were referring to."

Stalled, Marluxia was forced to wait until Vexen felt ready to continue.

"It was a beautiful place, Marluxia. You would have loved it. I shan't bore you with the details but it was a mostly aqueous world and the vast majority of species there were what you would call amphibious."

"Including you?" Marluxia asked. Vexen nodded.

"Most of our civilisation was centred around shallow water; deltas, salt marshes, mudflats. Have you ever visited a human mangrove forest?"

Marluxia hadn't, but he'd read about them before and often seen them on television.

"I know of them if that's what you're asking."

"My home was very similar to that," Vexen said. "Unimaginable colour. Unparalleled beauty. Almost every species communicated with colour there."

"You must miss it," Marluxia interrupted. Vexen curled a little on the chair.

"More than you can possibly imagine."

Again, there was a pause of several minutes before Vexen spoke again.

"The planet was fairly far from its sun, compared to planets such as Earth - but its unique atmospheric composition blanketed the warmth emanating from its core, allowing life to exist."

Marluxia sat up slowly.

Past tense. He dreaded the next sentence.

"I don't know how," Vexen whispered, voice cracking, "But that composition changed. The temperature crashed in a matter of months. Everything... froze."

Feeling as though he was tightrope walking and at any moment could fall, Marluxia slipped over and rested one palm on Vexen's shoulder. He didn't know what to say - couldn't say a thing.

"Billions of people died," Vexen continued, barely audible. "Nothing survived. I... I managed to keep the ice away with heat sources for a time, but... I was dying by the time one of Steelhaven's scout ships landed on the surface. I was lucky to survive. I lost more than two thirds of my body weight to the ice."

Marluxia's fingers took to softly kneading Vexen's shoulders. Doubtful that there was even any muscle beneath given Vexen's liquid nature, but it seemed to calm him a little as his skin dropped to a soft turquoise in hue.

"Nobody could have lived. We'd never developed interplanetary travel. I'm the last surviving member of my race."

Marluxia's hands dipped beneath Vexen's collar as colours faded, shifted, contorted into hideous contrast that could only signify pain.

"And they call me the Ice Maiden."

Biting cold festered in the pit of Marluxia's stomach. It had been Vexen's nickname since before he joined Steelhaven's crew - and ice had seen the destruction of his planet. It was sickening and the very force that drew Marluxia closer to Vexen, holding the shifting form tight to his body as it wept through the night.

* * *

Weeks passed.

Vexen melted into Marluxia like misty rain through his jackets and underclothes back on Earth, seeping through the air vents at night to drape his heavy weight across Marluxia's back, warm and comforting with a surreal, dreamlike texture to his skin that Marluxia soon grew to miss when Vexen did not divulge his company. During the day one could not distinguish him from a human, so it was at night his colours blossomed, his variable form found new appendages with which to hold Marluxia close and his lips softly learned to capture Marluxia's.

And it was a picture he painted, of a beautiful kaleidoscope world of sun sparkling on crystalline waters, of dappled patterns on bioluminescent flowers, of silence spanning forever and blinding colour. Marluxia filed a request to visit Vexen's homeworld, even to see nothing more than a wasteland of ice, but he was instantly denied. It could not, apparently, support human life. No matter that they explored a planet with an atmospheric composition of more than ninety percent carbon monoxide, or battled off savage aliens in a star system a hundred light years away. And for whatever life force pulsed inside him, Vexen became disheartened at this decision of highest command.

"There would be enough oxygen for your species to breathe. Perhaps the planet may even have thawed by now. Maybe there are survivors."

"If I was in command, your home would be the first place we'd go." Marluxia promised. Vexen had laughed bitterly, assuming it to be a hollow vow. But Marluxia knew every time he gazed into Vexen's green, green eyes that he meant every word.

* * *

Xemnas was unpopular: simple fact.

Marluxia was both charismatic and ambitious: true.

Dropping hints to the other crew members and extracting Xemnas' weak points: easy.

Painstakingly slowly, the devices for take over were slotted, manoeuvred and dropped into place. Marluxia planned. Loyal subordinates covered for his treachery. And the timing couldn't have been more perfect; just as they returned for the first time in a year to Earth everything was finally ready.

Just as they were disembarking, Marluxia found Vexen in the medical lab, working once again. Brief flashes of colour made half of their conversation, the rest cut down to three words.

"I love you."

Outside, Marluxia breathed deeply. Never again would he return to the ship without the elusive title of Captain before his name.

* * *

The journey, even with hyperspace technology at Steelhaven's fingertips, took three months. Most of the crew understood. Those who didn't were quietly replaced.

Most of the problem was the lack of co ordinates. But Vexen remembered the route, and with maps and records decades old and calculations based on stellar landmarks they finally tracked down his planet. So finally, Marluxia took his rightful place at Steelhaven's bridge one morning just as they entered Vexen's solar system.

"Approximate time until arrival at destination: five hours."

"Thank you, Larxene. Scan the planet in question."

Vexen, a nine foot giant once again, had been hanging as he often did at the entrance to the bridge, but there was a tension in his snakelike skin today, a hopeful eagerness in his brilliant eyes.

"Solar cycle nearing midday. Season, early to mid summer. Atmospheric composition compatible with human respiration."

In the span between Xemnas' replacement and their arrival, the highest in command had learned of the fate of Vexen's world. There wasn't a single crew member present who wasn't leaning forwards in their chair. Vexen himself had paled to a ghostly white, a colour Marluxia, glancing back, recognised as hope.

"Current surface temperature at destination co-ordinates..."

Not even the sharpest of knives would cut the suspense.

"Currently unobtainable. Sorry, guys. We'll know in a few hours."

Marluxia let out the air he'd been holding captive in a long sigh. There was no escaping the gap in Steelhaven's technology; they'd just have to wait until they were closer to the planet's surface before their infra-red scans would be accurate. He ran an agitated hand through his hair and politely requested a coffee. There were two possibilities: one, the planet would have recovered and life would be blooming once more. Vexen would be reunited with the surviving members of his species and finally be back where he belonged. Two, it would still be a frozen wasteland and three months of travel would come to nothing. Vexen would stay on Steelhaven forever.

Marluxia wasn't sure which was worse.

* * *

"The scans are finally coming through!"

Sleep starved, most of the crew were ready to collapse when Larxene suddenly yelled from her monitors. In an instant, they had all jerked awake.

"Yes?"

"Surface temperature range: minus forty four degrees to twenty seven degrees, Celsius."

Vexen, leaning against the wall, stepped sharply forwards.

"You mean...?"

"There are hotspots of higher temperatures. My guess is that there are still a few areas capable of supporting life - but not many."

"But there could be survivors." Vexen snapped, cutting straight to the chase. A horrible silence descended over the bridge. Larxene glanced up at the medical officer, sighing.

"Potentially. I'm not promising anything."

* * *

The shuttle landed in a snowstorm a few miles south of one of the hotspots Larxene's monitors picked up. There were just four of them there: Marluxia, Larxene, Xaldin who had past experience of the planet, and Vexen. All of them were covered from head to foot in heavy protective clothing against the bitter ice whipping the planet's surface as the hatch opened and they slipped out. Xaldin led the way with Larxene guiding him, none of them daring to move more than a few feet away from each other for fear of losing their way in the storm.

Through a dozen layers of thick nanotechnological thermal clothing, Marluxia took Vexen's hand in a crushing grip. None of the hotspots had been large - fifty miles across, at the most - and the chances of life were slim. But there was hope, there was still hope, and that almost made the punishing hike through jagged wastelands even worse.

After three and a half hours on Marluxia's watch, the wind slowed and the icy jabs of frozen rain became fluffy slow. Vision cleared; the four of them spread out a little to survey the surroundings.

Larxene found the corpse.

Snow blown away by callous winds, a body three times Vexen's size frozen in time with colours a shaky red and hideous black burned like a beacon. Its face was easy to pinpoint, a dozen rows of black eyes still wide with horror. Something like an arm reached up out of the ice, fingerlike tips desperately trying in vain to grasp at life.

They stared at it for a long time, this alien body stiff and frozen and screaming even in death. Eventually it was Vexen who spoke, voice a little strangled.

"May he rest in peace."

Larxene hummed a little in agreement. They moved on. As they approached the energy readings the air calmed, warmed. Patches of half semitranslucent plants growing freely amongst the scattered snow, then great, towering trees drew into view. It was still cold, but Vexen was the first to draw down his hood and pull off his gloves, hands brushing with tender nostalgia across the broad trunks of the twisting trees. As they walked, the colour increased, with purple and blue and pink and yellow splashed as though with reckless abandon in beautiful patterns that meant so much and made so little sense.

Their feet began to sink. Clear water lapped around their ankles, their knees, shimmering alien creatures darting from one form to another as smoothly as they swam. Some were barely the size of a fist, others towering over even Vexen as they dived and moved seamlessly with the water, approaching the troupe, inspecting them, flashing bright, inquisitive colours.

Marluxia had never seen anything so beautiful until Vexen dropped his restrictive clothes into the water and with a pulse of soft blue, simply disappeared. He tried to track the man through the ever shifting movement of bodies, but as shapes and colours changed seamlessly his beloved alien was soon lost.

"Vexen!"

Larxene gently tapped his shoulder. He turned a little - in his hands was Vexen's vocaliser unit, the one that must have fallen from his body as soon as his form had changed.

"He won't be able to hear you now."

Marluxia found himself flinching every time a fleeting body pressed against him in the warm water, even glued to the spot as he was. Vexen was gone, just like that, with the flick of something that might have been a tail. Marluxia swallowed a little at the thought. He'd always been prepared for the possibility of leaving Vexen on his home planet - or at least, told himself so. But standing so alone in this densely populated sanctuary holding out against the icy wastelands, he selfishly wished for nothing but to take Vexen away, locked forever in his humanoid shell and never to leave Steelhaven again.

The others explored, knelt in the water to let tiny jelly-like organisms drift across their fingers, but Marluxia was as frozen as the dead creature in the snow. Suddenly his badge, his rank and title, his accomplishments, meant nothing.

"He isn't coming back, is he."

"This is his home," Larxene, a few metres away, said gently. "He's going to stay here and you always knew that. This is where he belongs."

Marluxia snapped harshly back that yes, he had never known that as acutely as now, and couldn't fathom that Vexen would belong anywhere other than in his heart. But he was never a replacement for Vexen's home with Vexen's people, just a temporary substitute.

He felt used.

* * *

Hours passed, and slowly he doubted if Vexen even ever loved him like he adored suspecting, or just pressed himself close to his body because there was nobody better on Steelhaven. Greedy thoughts snapped at his mind because he _wanted_ Vexen and every minute that he didn't return was as biting as the cold. Eventually even the sun sank, the haven lit instead by the brilliant glow of biological chemicals, a spectacle that weakened the knees even more than the panorama's daylight display.

All around them the world moved in perfect unison, fluidly around the intruders and for the most part ignoring them bar a few curious creatures nipping at their knees.

"We should go. I've contacted Steelhaven, we can't stay here long or risk damaging the shuttle."

That was Larxene, joining Marluxia who'd not moved since Vexen left. He jumped a little as her bare hand brushed his, and said nothing.

"Come on, Marluxia."

Marluxia turned back where he could just make out the storms of the wasteland beyond.

"He didn't even say goodbye."

"I'm sure he's grateful," Larxene whispered, "For everything you did for him. He's happy now. Isn't that what you wanted?"

"I wanted to be happy too," Marluxia admitted miserably. Larxene stared at him for a moment, then pulled him into a tight embrace.

"It's for the best."

"I _know_," Marluxia hissed, blinking back tears. Damn it, he wanted to be glad for Vexen, back with his own race, but he couldn't be, not without Vexen who had become so special to him in a thousand tiny ways.

* * *

They stayed for a few more hours, until the sun peeked over the horizon and the stars disappeared from view. Finally Marluxia moved, if only to collect Vexen's sodden clothes and neatly hang them across a low-hanging branch of a magnificent alien tree, the vocaliser slung on top. Every movement was sluggish because he didn't want to go, but Vexen was seamlessly integrated back in his natural habitat and it was here that he was staying. But Marluxia hoped that he'd at least return for a proper goodbye.

He nearly melted when his hopes were correct. He was waiting for his clothes to dry out in the warm early morning sun on a little island above the water when something smooth and liquid that could only be Vexen slid over his back with the softest of whispered syllables.

"Stay with me."

Marluxia turned, made sense of alien limbs enough to encapsulate Vexen in his arms and glared at the nearest set of bright eyes.

"You could have said goodbye."

"You might have thought it was for ever."

Marluxia sighed, burying his face in a convenient crook of Vexen's body that might have been a neck. Soft almost-hair fell neatly around him as his companion shifted to a more humanoid form, definitive fingers needling his back.

"And I couldn't leave you forever," Vexen murmured, his tinny voice the only sound above the lap of waves on the shoreline. "I couldn't care less about the other humans, but you're different."

"Thanks," Marluxia muttered sardonically. But he had to admit, he wanted to see more of Vexen's world. Wanted to understand how some exclusive patches had survived, wanted to learn every colour and pattern and recognise every amphibious species, study all the fantastic plants populating the soil and water.

"Stay here," Vexen said again. Marluxia felt four, five, six hands curling around his body, prising at the divisions of clothes to touch colourfast skin beneath.

"I can't," He automatically replied. "I have Steelhaven to command."

"Forget the rocket ship," Vexen instructed with a manner that was almost amused. "She can return for you. Isn't it time you let your true colours show?"


	49. 097 Quitting

**097 - Quitting**

Demyx hated football. His Dad took him to games every weekend during the season, his friends always kicked sponge balls around the park and playgrounds and streets and gardens, he was recruited into the school team when a coach recognised his knack for fancy footwork. But Demyx hated hated football: the thinly-veiled vicious brutality, the fanatics of the fans, the game's sheer pointlessness. Demyx didn't care.

But he was stuck: his Dad was 'so proud' of his son, the school team's star striker; in every speech the coach laughed that nobody - especially not Demyx - could let the side down for them to pull a victorious triumph in the upcoming league.

Demyx had no overwhelming desire to win, no passion for football - just talent for graceful precision in movement and intense pressure from friends, family and teachers alike.

* * *

He first saw the pink haired boy showering off after practice - he'd stayed late with the instructor for extra drills, so the two boys were alone.

"You're not on the football team, are you?"

From the boy's athletic figure, Demyx supposed he could have been even if he'd not seen the other boy on the pitch: after all, the coach was always trying out new recruits for the team.

But the boy shook his head.

"Nope. Dance."

Demyx scoffed something like 'pansy' under his breath for stereotypes and prejudiced upbringing, but it was half hearted. Right now, legs aching like Hell, dance seemed like a pretty easy deal. And sure enough, Dance-boy was unfazed.

"Heh. You'd be surprised at the balls it takes to dance if you're a boy."

"'S a girl's thing."

Dance-boy shrugged.

"So what. Do what you enjoy."

He wandered out.

* * *

Demyx saw him again the next week after more extra practice, just as the taller boy was tugging on a close fitting turtle-neck sweater.

"Hey."

"Hi. Saw you on the pitch. You're good."

"Thanks," Demyx said, then for a moment paused. "Hey, what do your parents say about you dancing?"

Dance-boy, combing through his fluffy pink hair, grinned a little ruefully.

"Mam thinks I'm on the football team."

"Oh, right." Demyx replied blandly. There wasn't much he could say to that.

"You should come along some time," Dance-boy continued suddenly.

"No way," Demyx scoffed. "I got footie."

Again, Dance-boy's only response was to shrug on the way out.

"Fair enough."

* * *

It became a routine, seeing Dance-boy in the changing rooms every Thursday. Weirdly, it was nice not being alone when the rest of the team had long since gone home - and Demyx soon learned a lot about the pink haired boy. His name was Marluxia, his parents were divorced and his favourite animal was a cougar: one day he hoped to be a professional dancer and he was in love with a beautiful girl called Larxene - but she wouldn't date him because he wasn't enough of a boy for her. He loved the music, hated the stigma. He was an interesting guy; Demyx liked him.

The football tournament dragged on. Demyx trained every day, at lunchtimes and after school and on weekends as they won the first game, the second, the third...

* * *

Once week, Demyx stayed on until the sun had set, perfecting his strikes on the pitch. Even the coach had wandered in for a shower. It wasn't until grabbing a ball from the side that he noticed a lone figure on one of the spectator benches. He jogged over.

"Hey, Pansy."

It was more of a joke than an insult now; Demyx had started it before he even knew 'Dance-boy's name and besides, 'Marluxia' just didn't sound right pronounced with Demyx's Mancunian slur.

"You're dedicated," Marluxia commented flippantly, gesturing to the long since vacated football field. Demyx shrugged as best he could.

"Can't let the team down."

"It sounds to me like the only person you're scared to let down is yourself," Marluxia commented as he followed Demyx back into the changing rooms. Demyx felt disinclined to reply.

* * *

It was an unlikely friendship: Demyx would hardly dream of talking to the well-spoken dancer during school hours, but out of good manners he'd still not to the boy if ever they passed in the corridor. The tournament ended with a glittering cup adorned with their colours. Demyx still did extra time on Thursdays so he could chat with Marluxia, since the dance group always finished half an hour after football.

"Hey, Pansy."

"Demyx. It's good to see you again."

"You alright?"

"I'm okay."

It was nice chatting to someone outside Demyx's friendship group: outside of the general ruckus of the school, he was surprisingly perceptive to the forces controlling the other students, and he was a cultural wealth of knowledge that Demyx tried not to lap up eagerly.

"You should come after football to watch one week," Marluxia said once. Demyx brushed off the suggestion, but that didn't stop him slipping away to the ballet studio after practice the next Thursday. He felt out of place with his designer trainers on and sports kit slung over his shoulders, but the instructor - a pretty young woman with a blonde bob - had nothing but smiles as he shuffled onto one of the benches to watch.

But _oh_, the way the dancers moved to every beautiful rhythmic contemporary beat with the grace an precision that Demyx craved in every pass and strike on the pitch. He was truthfully spellbound by the perfect synchronisation and the fluidity of every arc and curve. It was impeccable, irrevocable and soul-moving, something more than just human.

When the dance was over, Demyx clapped with all the enthusiasm his tired body could muster. It was more than football had ever aroused. Marluxia, the laughing centrepiece of the dance, came over and dropped his sweat-drenched body onto the bench, grabbing a towel.

"Those girls are heavier than they'd like to admit,"

Demyx had seen Marluxia lift a few of them and sire, he could pick people up but only to stagger drunkenly around before gracelessly dropping them again. Marluxia had total control.

"You were good."

"Thanks."

Marluxia stretched back, breathing deeply with techniques Demyx recognised from the pitch.

"We're been practising that one for a while."

"What's the point?" Demyx asked. There were no goals to score in a dance routing, no winner when the music faded out.

Marluxia laughed at him.

"We've got a competition next month." He said. "That's what this is for."

He paused for a moment, drinking solidly from a clear plastic bottle.

"Of course, what we could really do with is another guy for lifting to balance out the dance, but..."

Marluxia didn't need to shoot him a foxy grin: Demyx was already lost.

* * *

With no dancing experience, Marluxia had only six weeks to coach Demyx into a pro. Suddenly every lunch break was spent in the studio with Marluxia stretching his muscles to the absolute limit, every hour after school taken up with learning the routine until the music and movements were burned into Demyx's brain. He still went to football practice every Thursday but it was ugly and crude by comparison - his passion was with Marluxia now, perfecting the dance.

People asked questions, of course, but Demyx brushed it off - he had to do extra studies today, had a lunchtime detention tomorrow, needed to use the library computers all next week for a vitally important but unspecified project.

There was just one problem.

"How am I gonna get to the competition?"

"My Pa can take us."

Marluxia and Demyx were practising lifts together under the logic that if they could lift up each other, they could easily carry any of the lighter girls. Marluxia, tall, broad and muscular, was heavy and Demyx was struggling.

"Thought your parents didn't know you danced."

"Mam doesn't. Pa's the one who convinced me to join the dance group at school."

"Wow, really?"

Demyx was amazed; he couldn't imagine his father ever advocating a boy doing dance.

"Yeah. He's gay."

"Oh."

* * *

Demyx could barely contain his excitement as the dance fell into perfection, his part seamlessly integrating with the others. The football coach, of course, thought that Demyx's bright eyes and jumpy attitude the week before the competition was for the upcoming tournament, but that wasn't until the following Saturday. Demyx had checked.

On Thursday, Demyx was just about to run off to the studio where Marluxia and the girls were waiting when the coach jogged over.

"Hey, Demyx. I got great news! We're in the first game. Next Saturday."

Demyx paled, shaking his head. Saturday was the dance competition! He'd made sure it wouldn't clash!

"But I'm busy."

"Nothing you can't cancel," The coach said dismissively.

"But I said I'd do this thing for my friend," Demyx said helplessly. He couldn't admit that he was part of a dance!

"Nothing's more important than football," The coach insisted anyway, when he couldn't have been more wrong. "It's your passion, isn't it, Demyx? You're our star striker. You can't let us down."

Demyx nodded miserably and wandered away.

* * *

"I can't make the competition."

He'd waited until Friday, unable to face telling the whole dance group. It was just Demyx and Marluxia here and that made it a little - if only a _little_ - easier.

"What."

"I can't go to the dance competition. I've got a football match."

"But you're part of our routine," Marluxia protested. "We need you! Demyx, you're a natural - the best I've ever seen on just six weeks of training. Can't you just cancel the football? We've been working on this for months!"

"I have to do the football," Demyx said miserably.

"You don't even care about football!" Marluxia challenged furiously - but seeing Demyx's torn expression, he stopped. Clenching his fists, he turned.

"Fine. I see how it is."

"You don't understand," Demyx said, slumping with his head in his hands. "I can't quit football. They'd want to know why, and if I told them, I... they'd call me a poof. They'd all laugh so much."

Marluxia span back with blatantly uncontrollable fury.

"I don't understand? Demyx, _look at me_! I'm a boy, I have pink hair and I dance. Do you think that anybody _honestly_ believes that I'm straight? Before you accuse _me_ of not understanding, maybe you should take a second to look at who you're talking to."

He staggered over to the bench.

"I'm _sorry_," He hissed. "I just don't like it when people are scared to make sacrifices when I gave up everything to follow my passion."

"I would have done it," Demyx insisted through his fingers. "But I can't let down the team."

"So it's okay to let down _our_ team?" Marluxia snapped accusingly.

"Look, I'm sorry, okay! You can do the dance without me!" Demyx cried, standing abruptly. "The football team needs me. My Dad'll be there. I can't make the competition."

He stormed out before Marluxia could reply.

* * *

The week before the game was miserable. Demyx put in the extra hours on the pitch, but his head was still humming with musical rhythm.

"You're getting sloppy," The coach said several times after yet another ball would go flying outside the goalposts.

"I'm just distracted," Demyx promised half-heartedly.

"Well, get your head in gear. You can't afford to be out of it for the game."

Demyx couldn't see why kicking a ball around a pitch was so vitally important, why he had to ruin a competition and give up something that he loved for a petty, hollow glory and dirty knees. The further the week progressed, the more disillusioned Demyx became. So it was on Friday that he tracked down Marluxia, practising relentlessly in the studio.

"Right. Here's the plan."

* * *

Demyx's father took him to the game half an hour early on his request, and after a few minutes of sycophantic pep-talk left him to the changing rooms.

Demyx did not have his kit in his sports bag. Instead, he slipped on a black, long sleeved t-shirt and matching leggings, black pumps then the glitzy silver waistcoat and leg warmers that Marluxia had ordered the moment Demyx had given the word go.

Momentarily, he felt ridiculous. This was not the place to be seen dead in costume. But he steeled himself as he tugged a smart trilby over his hair; he wanted to do this. For Marluxia, for the dance team, for the perfect, beautiful rush of adrenaline - but mostly for himself. He drew himself up to his full height and walked out into the pitch where his coach was chatting to the home team instructor.

"Hey, coach."

The coach turned around and laughed openly.

"What's that stupid outfit you're wearing?"

Demyx sighed a little and kept the graceful visions of dancing clear in his head.

"I can't do the game," He said. "I'm busy. People are counting on me."

"In that costume? What are you doing, dancing?"

"Actually," Demyx said, "Yeah."

The coach laughed again and had nothing to say - just a disbelieving look.

"I'm going to a competition," Demyx explained. "I made a commitment and I'm sticking to it. I'm not going to let something as stupid as football get in the way of doing what I love."

He hung around for a moment.

"But dancing is a girls' thing," The coach protested.

"Yeah, that's what I used to think," Demyx agree. He skipped a little on his toes. "You've got subs. You can deal without me."

"But you're our star player!"

"Just pretend I broke my leg."

"Demyx, you're committed to the team!"

"Not this team," Demyx ground out. "I'm quitting."

Marluxia was waiting outside in his father's car. Demyx made a break for it and practically flew into the leather interior, Marluxia scrambling to right him and strap him in.

"Let's go."

"Okie-dokie!"

"Just ignore him," Marluxia whispered, flushing a little as he gestured to the older man in the driver's seat. "He hasn't got his head on straight."

The car, a beautiful model, purred to life and glided smoothly through the streets. Demyx, desperate for a distraction, made idle chatter through the entire journey until finally - they arrived at the venue, barely on time.

"We're on in ten," Marluxia whispered as they crept across the backstage. Music outside was already blaring; seconds ticked agonisingly slowly past as the group ran through the routine one last time. And then their school was called, their music fading in from silence.

"I'm nervous," Demyx admitted just before they ran cartwheels onto the stage. A warm, masculine hand brushed against his palm.

"You're going to be fantastic."

And Demyx was gone, lost in rhythm and the flawless execution of the dance. Later, there'd be Hell; his father would be furious, his friends would ridicule him. He'd be kicked from the team for his insolence - and right here, right now as he hooked a girl's leg around his elbow and hoisted her high into the air then rolled into position for a unison beat, he couldn't care less. He'd found his passion now and nothing was ever going to make him quit.

* * *

A lovely cliché story, for reasons I can explain: I wrote this while on Guide camp, and several of the girls there took an interest to the story. Since the youngest of them were ten, I couldn't exactly make it as gay as the others. And they demanded it be a full story, too. So here you go.


	50. 099 Peace

**099 - Peace**

It had been a year since Vexen had found Marluxia in the dusty laboratory cupboard and finally his smile was no longer broken. It had taken months of hard work finding suppliers, materials and shady contractors, but eventually all the shards of brittle salmon latex had been gleaned from Marluxia's body and replaced with a new, malleable skin.

With his battery lying beside his body, Vexen took a moment to inspect the robotic boy. He couldn't call him a robot any more, not if his origins were organic and his mind was self aware. And he really was a boy, with an innocent mind and a childish, unaware demeanour.

Of course Vexen had seen his face before: he'd modelled it as closely as he could to Marluxia's splintered visage, paid for it to be manufactured with vast amounts of money that wasn't his. But it was different, painstakingly attached to metallic clips, pulled into solidity and lying still with a peaceful expression on its features.

Momentarily, Vexen cast his fingers against Marluxia's cheek. For a split second he envied the boy, with the body if kept in good condition would never die, and a processor-mind that could both love and calculate the square root of pi accurate to two thousand decimal places. But... he'd never know what it was like to be truly human, and the previous events of his life would probably scar him forever.

Letting out the softest of sighs, Vexen leaned down and slotted in the battery pack. He flicked a switch and softly, Marluxia hummed to life.

"All done."

Marluxia sat up carefully.

"It doesn't hurt any more."

It must have been painful, pressure nodes wrought and twisted beneath cracked skin and many exposed where splinters had fallen away. But with a little calibration, he'd be as good as new. Vexen smiled as he helped Marluxia gingerly lever himself onto the floor.

"How do you feel?"

Marluxia clicked a little as his stabilisers automatically righted his balance, and he took a few confident steps on newly padded feet.

"Much better. I..." He paused for a moment, slumping his shoulders the way he always did. "Thank you so much. You really didn't need to do this for me."

"Of course I did," Vexen scoffed, brushing his fingers through Marluxia's dusty pink prosthetic hair. "You deserve all of this and more."

Marluxia wrought his hands a little, then scuttled over to his precious box and tugged out a change of clothes. His collection had grown significantly since Vexen had first found him, filled mostly with Vexen's old clothes. Marluxia liked them, said they made him feel more like a person. At the bottom of the box were a few of the bits and bobs that Vexen had salvaged from Marluxia's first box of possessions, which he'd thrown away after finding the festering remains of a cheese sandwich in one corner. Now the box was plastic. Easier to clean.

Unused to his new fingers, Marluxia fumbled with his buttons until Vexen popped them through their holes himself.

"I was thinking, Marluxia."

"Yes?"

Marluxia's head, hanging, snapped up instantly. He was too attentive, Vexen found himself thinking. Too obedient, too docile. But that was what his life had dictated, an ingrained personality no electromagnetic wipe could overwrite. It was sort of sad.

"Now that you're all fixed up, I was thinking you could go outside."

"Outside?" Marluxia asked incredulously, awe in his voice. "You mean the_ real _world?"

Marluxia had something of a fairytale view of what he called the 'real world', and Vexen was reluctant to have to spoil it. Half of him wished that he could somehow make Marluxia always believe that the real world was perfect and beautiful - but it was wrong, wrong to deceive him.

But at least Vexen could take Marluxia out now, without people being horrified by his appearance.

"Yeah," He said, nodding a little. "Now you don't have to worry about pollution getting into your systems, I could take you around the estate. Or to the closest work where there are people. What do you think?"

Marluxia shivered a little, and if it wasn't for the wide grin pushing the plastic on his face into rosy cheeks, Vexen would have thought he was shaking with fear. But he was excited, so excited that if Even listened closely, he could hear the boy's secondary ventilations systems whirring frantically in an attempt to cool him down.

"_People_." He eventually managed. Then he let out a little gasp and sat down. "What's happening to me?"

It was things like that that nearly broke Vexen heart, because Marluxia didn't _understand_ the emotions that he experienced, because he automatically assumed that everything new was a glitch in his programming.

"Nothing. You're just excited." Vexen said as naturally as came to him.

"Do I get to meet them?" Marluxia asked in amazement. Apart from the postman, a distant memory that Marluxia had once divulged, the only people he'd ever known were Vexen and his parents. If Vexen wasn't a total loner, Marluxia might have met his friends: but as it was, Marluxia's life was horribly devoid of human contact.

"Of course."

Marluxia could barely contain his anticipation, practically bouncing as Vexen bundled him into the car. He could hardly even speak, words simply tumbling from his vocaliser in a great stream of sheer, unadulterated happiness. Even on the journey to the town his face was pressed against the car window in wonder at_ trees _and _cars_ and_ fields_ and Marluxia textbook named every object he could focus on in awe and wonder until Vexen slowed down in a lay-by and let him out. He spent an hour just watching the world pass by, his perfect face lit up with childish glee.

Vexen hardly wanted to chivvy him along even when clouds covered the sky and rain splashed on their coats. Marluxia was just drinking the scenery in, the rolling hills and grazing cattle and then-

"A _rainbow_!"

Sure enough, an arc had soared over the clouds, glittering with perfection. Marluxia was amazed, shouting over the hiss of rain and tugging at Vexen's sleeves. He'd heard of rainbow before, knew all the physics, but he'd never seen one before and it was so _beautiful_ and _the most amazing thing_ he'd _ever seen_ and he nearly managed to shut down his consciousness controls in his sheer exhilaration.

It wasn't until clouds had covered the whole sky and the rainbow was nothing more than a memory that Vexen returned a soaking Marluxia to the car. They didn't go to town or meet any people. Vexen rolled them slowly back home, where Marluxia dried himself enthusiastically with a towel then curled up at his post at the end of Vexen's bed, plugged himself into the mains and fell asleep.

Vexen watched him for a long time. He looked so peaceful, legs tucked up to his elbows and hands pressed together in curling lock, blemishes gone from his body. And he was happier too, if timid, with Vexen to guide him through his second life. Marluxia might not have found peace yet, but... he was getting there.

* * *

Robotic Marluxia, from _039 - Grace_ and_ 059 - God_. After Vexen fixed him up properly, he was happy. The story went that he was a cyborg, a man who had to undergo drastic surgery: the people who met him bought it. And, of course, he was always utterly in love with Vexen.


	51. 101 Rainbow

**101 - Rainbow**

_Scarlet Fury_

The moment your glamorous eyes swept over the ebony curves of his angular body, you'd caught him. He'd fight, of course, with all the dirty, underhanded tactics of the coward he was - but you claimed him, buried the spike of your flag deep into his hollow chest and you always knew he could never escape. _I hate you_! He'd scream, face red with vehement rage but you had him twisted as your jaden vines around your fingers. His livid words would blister with hatred but you knew, you knew it was only a matter of counting the days before he was yours.

_Bittersweet Citrus_

It began with the odd suggestive comment, sweeping glances as though you could lick the salmon skin beneath his heavy leather with your eyes. But you underestimated your own self control and it was his amaranth lips you bruised with cerise passion and helpless, unstoppable lust. It left an acrid taste on your tongue and a readable confusion on his gorgeous features, a different kind of rift between you that blurred the distinctions between apathy and ghosts of emotion.

_Flaxen Blonde_

And they told you you couldn't dream, that when you slept your salmon body was as empty as a shell. But it was his golden hair in the sunlight that burned the backs of your eyelids, skin a paler shade of ethereal white in perfect contrast to his raven attire that imprinted a flawless image in everything you saw. You'd wake, body crystalline with sweat, hard and fast and burning desire for the beautiful colourless scientist to melt into shades of grey at your fingertips.

_Emerald Eyes_

He tried to run. Of course he tried to run, he was afraid of the power you held over his non-existent heart. But you'd caught him, always kept him tightly bound in a steel cage and all it took was your azure eyes to meet his, every hue tinted and saturated by the ceaseless pour of clear, nowhere water and colours spoke for every world trapped in your throat. He could not leave. He could not run. He could not hide. He would be yours.

_Feeling Blue_

In every world, the sky was a constant. The sun rose in the morning, reached zenith at precisely midday, sank to the tune of a thousand purple orange blues every night. The sky was overcast, the sky was black, the sky dazzled in cloudless perfection but it was always the_ sky_. When all that you owned deserted you in the bitter ice you could always look up and see the sky. When your chest was the emptiest, when not even hollow remnants of inspiration were left the sky was still blue.

_Playing Purple_

If you'd known, oh, if only you'd known that all it would take to crack him was one single, smouldering gaze through heavy lashes on the desk of his complex basement laboratory. Of course it also took for him to be in the right mood, the perfect concoction of brittle anger, colleague harassment and a desire to do anything other than waste another night working on futile missions and scrawling incessant reports. In truth all you ever needed to do was wait until he was ready to unleash his sub-zero wrath on something -_ anything _- then provide adequate distraction. But you were lucky and he was furious and the timing was perfect for your bodies to crash together and your tongues to play and clothes to disintegrate, forgotten, on the floor. And nothing in the world could have come through that door and stopped either of you, because finally, in a rush of passionate rage and indulgent, sanguine lust, he was yours.


	52. 103 Hide

**103 - Hide**

"Ninety eight, ninety nine, one hundred. Ready or not, here I come!"

Letting his hands fall from his face, Vexen turned from the wall and took a moment to calibrate his mind to the current task then set off. He'd begun in the kitchen and _obviously_ Marluxia wasn't hiding in the fridge, so he turned left into the spare bedroom downstairs, checking first the little toilet off the side - empty - then the wardrobe - unoccupied - and the space under the bed - nothing. Vexen sighed to himself as he slid his hands underneath the duvet and found nothing until his fingertips came into contact with distinctly denim fabric. Thinking this a battle too easily won, Vexen tugged harshly on the jeans until hanging limply in his hand was a clearly currently unused article of clothing. The point being that it had been used, oh, about one hundred counts of a varying second ago.

Vexen flipped the jeans over his arm and set off in search for a now, apparently, trouserless boy.

The convoluted porch was next - but the cupboard under the stairs was desolate bar a sock, still warm from the foot it had once grasped snugly. Vexen balanced it precariously onto the jeans and set off again, checking the front garden with a sweep of his gaze but knowing that if Marluxia had been stripping all over the house again, he wouldn't be in the front garden. This hide and seek had become a new game and not a game Vexen hadn't encountered before: the task set upon him was to find Marluxia's clothes first and then locate the naked boy. He sighed a little to himself, and slipped into the dining room - nowhere to hide there, but there was the matching sock draped lovingly over the strut of a chair, so Vexen plucked that one up, too, and made his way through to the living room. The sleeve of a shirt, fashioned into a plausible elbow, was crouching behind the television and a pair of gaudy underpants fitted for a narrow waist strung artistically in the lowest boughs of a tree in the garden. Vexen checked all the cubby-holes in the bathroom but found little of consequence, and for once his own bed was devoid of Marluxia's cheeky presence. He checked the study but crawling under the desk produced no under-age and horrifyingly attractive brunette. Humming to himself, Vexen returned to the ground floor with his ever-increasing bundle of discarded clothes and checked the garden again. Marluxia had not been above having fun in the outdoors, not since a tickle fight on the lawn had escalated into something else much more racy.

Finally, there was only one more place left to look: the loft. It sported a tiny desk and an even tinier bed crammed into one corner just in case anybody had a sudden, overwhelming desire to sleep in the rafters, and a veritable tunnel of junk and boxes that Vexen, Scrooge that he was, could not bear to throw away. It was surrounded by eve's cupboards, also full of junk and boxes. If Marluxia had wormed his way in there...

When checking under the bed proved futile, Vexen sighed to himself and began to carefully displace cardboard boxes in search of his godson. He listened out for the sounds of breathing, and if he strained his ears hard enough, he could just make out some kind of movement, deep in the boxes.

"Marluxia?"

There was a breathy little giggle, somewhere in the depths of the cardboard tunnel. Vexen rolled his eyes and crawled blindly in through the open door of an eve's cupboard until his fingertips came into contact with not woody fibres, but warm, soft skin. The instant they touched, his hand automatically slid to press against the boy's invisible chest; it elicited a soft half gasp, half moan that echoed through the darkness.

"You're not supposed to call my name," Marluxia huffed breathlessly as Vexen's hands roamed over his naked body. "That's cheating."

"You're not supposed to be naked," Vexen joked back as his tongue found the slowly solidifying jawline of the young boy, burning hands fumbling with his own buttons in a desperation for a contact that stretched far beyond Marluxia's years.

There was the flash of guilt and worry and horror the way there always was when Vexen touched Marluxia; the Goddamn inescapable fact that he was (more than just) groping a fourteen year old boy on a regular basis, that Vexen - no matter how he tried to dodge the truth - was a paedophile.

But then Marluxia shuddered joyfully, hands stronger than they appeared pulling Vexen close and a small, wet mouth finding his with an entirely unrestrained moan. And everything, the wrongness of it all, the consequences if they were ever found, simply melted away into pleasure and lust and desire. But sweet Jesus _Christ_, Marluxia might have been barely a teenager but he had a gorgeous body, and Vexen wanted nothing more than to drag it out of the darkness to trap that vision of (metaphorically) unadulterated beauty caught in ecstasy forever. Vexen couldn't help but wonder if last year Marluxia was adorable and this year he was gorgeous, what on Earth kind of insane brand of perfection would he be in five years time?

Before he knew it, his clothes had disappeared somewhere in the mazed of tunnels and Marluxia was rearranging his legs (mostly with his hands, partly with his tongue) so that somehow the two of them could connect together in the cramped space. And this was how it was with the two of them, a thirty-five year old man and a fourteen year old scrap of a boy; everything led either to cuddles in strange places, baking cakes with unorthodox methods, or this orgasmic intimacy that Vexen had never really shared with another being.

And Vexen couldn't hide from the truth: that one day his whole world would come crashing down around him and at the centre would be Marluxia, the gorgeous boy he'd spent a lifetime pushing the boundaries of what was appropriate and what wasn't, who not only never said no, but implicitly and demandingly said nothing but a resounding _yes_. But, God damn it, with Marluxia in his arms and Marluxia in his heart, he could run and run and run and run.

* * *

Affectionately known as paedo!411, based off a somewhat disturbing dream I once had. Also known by its full title, _The Dark Side of the Moon_.


	53. 105 Sense

**105 - Sense**

"You have absolutely no fashion sense, you know that?"

Vexen glanced up from his manic tapping on his new company laptop to see Marluxia smirking in the doorway. Vaguely wondering why Marluxia had decided to randomly appear in his room and insult him, but not too much because wondering anything about Marluxia made his head hurt, Vexen glanced at the man's fashionably tight shirt and sculpted jeans, and then down at his own attire. Tracksuit trousers, comfortable and baggy, and an equally loose plain white t-shirt.

"I'm not desperate to impress anybody," He clipped back, returning to his work. His colleagues had decided to kick him out at five thirty today, and he'd spent two uncomfortable hours trying to be sociable at the nearest bar when he could have sworn that everyone was whispering contributorily about him, before returning home. Usually he'd have worked until at least seven, and this break in his strict routine left nothing but to catch up in his bedroom.

At the lidded insult, Marluxia chuckled a little in his deep, rich voice. Vexen found himself wondering - for the thousandth time - why Marluxia just had everything: good looks, charisma, a gorgeous voice, _money_...

"I'll let that one slide, Vexen

Vexen rolled his eyes at the flickering screen and tapped a few more half-hearted words.

"So what was your real reason for intruding into my personal space?"

Marluxia let his hands drop from his elbows to his sides and strode in. Marluxia didn't _walk _anywhere, he strutted with his back poker straight and his hips swinging. What was worse, to him it came perfectly naturally, like breathing or speaking. He'd probably had that peacock-sashay his entire life.

"Your wardrobe is more than a little drab."

Vexen growled a little under his breath. That was none of Marluxia's concern: he was a 'drab' person. He wore suits, plain black, no fancy trims or lace or coloured ties. When suits were inappropriate, he had two pairs of plain jeans and a tan leather belt to share between them and three white t-shirts, all enormously too large. His underwear drawer was composed of white boxers and white socks, most with dying elastic or threadbare patches. And none of that was anything to do with Marluxia.

"I fail to see why that's your problem."

Marluxia turned on his heel - his hideously expensive inch-raised leather boot heel - and smiled faintly at the house's other male occupant.

"You need new clothes."

"Don't have the money," Vexen snapped automatically. As far as clothes went, with his last paycheck Vexen bought a pack of needles and two reels of thread.

"I do."

Vexen glared again at the younger man, as though to snap that he didn't care, he wasn't going to lower himself to using someone else's riches for superfluous garments, and realised in a horrible split second that Marluxia was holding a pair of his underpants. He flung himself out of his chair and made a grab for them, missing spectacularly.

"H-hey! Give those back!"

Marluxia simply waved them out of reach.

"To be honest, Vexen, you'd look astoundingly better naked. Your formal wear doesn't even fit."

"Well, I'm sorry that I'm not so grossly overpaid that I can have my suits made to measure!" Vexen barked, finally wrenching his undergarments from Marluxia's grasp and flinging them back in the drawer where they belonged.

"Consider a wardrobe overhaul a present, then," Marluxia said simply.

"I like my clothes!" Vexen lied desperately. Marluxia gave him a critical once over with those azure eyes that Vexen could have sworn could see right down to his skin.

"Really."

"The answer's still no."

Vexen turned to continue typing - a mistake. Marluxia caught his wrist and spun him back in an iron hold.

"That's a pity," He said so softly, the amused quirk still in his lips. "I thought you had more common sense than to deny a gift, particularly in your... financial situation."

Vexen grit his teeth, meeting Marluxia's eyes with an acid glare.

"There's going to be a price."

Marluxia laughed shortly, leaning in suffocatingly close. Vexen could smell his distinctive scent of expensive floral perfumes and bizarrely, freshly cut grass, cloying his airways and his first reaction was to gag.

"If you'd like there to be."

Vexen wanted to know _how_ Marluxia had such an ability to freeze him in his own skin, to stop his hands shuddering into a slap or his feet staggering backwards to break from the gentlest of kisses laid to his lips. And Marluxia watched him as though observing some social experiment as he prised Vexen's mouth open and explored the cavern between his teeth. The sound of the ticking clock rang in Vexen's ears, ten, twenty, thirty seconds and finally Marluxia and any alien feelings were gone.

"Don't do that," He hissed, but his volition was lost somewhere along the line.

"I'll take that as a yes," Marluxia murmured lightly. "We'll leave tomorrow morning at nine. Naminé, of course, will be joining us, for her professional opinion. I intend to give her a... gift... as well."

Fighting down the urge to retch and the unspoken implications, Vexen forcefully pulled away, scowling.

"What makes you think I'll ever agree to your idiotic idea?"

Marluxia threw him a calculative look.

"I'm paying your rent."

* * *

Saturday, nine o'clock, saw Naminé amazed and Vexen lost as Marluxia ushered them into a sleek supercar that looked as though it belonged in the next century. The curves were the epitome of aerodynamic beauty, the black and pink paint job custom, the interior black leather and the dashboard filled to bursting with interactive screens and dials and voice control.

There was just one thing that perplexed Vexen; a sleek silver logo emblazoned on the front of the car's bonnet.

"That's the Decepticon insignia."

Marluxia smiled a little, thumbing over the distinctive angles of the sigil.

"A homage to my brother, if you will. He loved the show."

Vexen sniffed disdainfully.

"I'm more of an Autobot, to be honest."

Marluxia chuckled.

"Perceptor."

"_Starscream_."

"... Touché."

They slid inside and forward in time by fifty years. Marluxia revved the engine and the car purred to life, rolling effortlessly out of the drive and into the road. Through the tinted windows, Vexen could_ feel_ passers-by on the street turning their heads and staring at the gorgeous car as it slid rather than drove by. It was the smoothest ride Vexen had ever been in, by far. It took just a few minutes for the town to peel away behind them and the motorway's vast expanse to lie ahead.

Marluxia slammed his foot down on the accelerator and the other cars simply melted away. Vexen, who'd hardly been paying attention, screamed.

"M-Marluxia! What the_ Hell_ are you doing?"

"There's no point having a car with a top speed of three hundred miles per hour if you're not going to use her," Marluxia replied calmly, swerving suddenly to overtake a grubby van. The car reacted instantly to his touch, as though he were steering it with his mind.

Vexen swallowed thickly as Marluxia traced a clear path through the cars, the engine's roar belying its perfect movement.

"Just how fast are we going, anyway?"

"A little under one hundred and twenty," Marluxia prompted smoothly.

"I _swear _that is illegal," Vexen half choked as they came to a bare expanse of road - and what the Hell, British roads were _never_ empty - and Marluxia pushed the car even faster.

"You're not jealous, are you?"

"J-jealous? Why would I be jealous?"

Marluxia braked suddenly and pulled over to the side. He slipped out, moments later pulling Vexen's door open.

"I don't extend this privilege to many people," He said smoothly as, stunned, Vexen unclipped his seat belt and slipped out. As much as he wanted to scorn Marluxia and stand by his own values, he felt horribly underdressed in his ill-fitting suit trousers and shirt open at the collar by this car, this epitome of mechanical perfection.

Marluxia led him to the driver's side and ran over a few peculiarities of the car's controls then slid into the passenger's seat.

"Go on."

Vexen ran his fingers over the steering wheel, heartbeat rising. It was every boy's dream to drive such a perfect car and he might have been a geek but he was no exception - but an ugly curl in his stomach resentfully reminded him that this realisation was only possible because of Marluxia. Just like everything.

Vexen glanced at the other man momentarily then waited for a break in the traffic and carefully eased his foot down onto the pedal. With no complaints, no coughing or stuttering or stalling, the engine whispered to life. He began in the outermost lane as he familiarised himself with the powerful steering, then accelerated and moved in, overtaking comparatively ugly cars that Vexen wished he had the money to own, skipping behind a lorry and into the fast lane. He hardly wanted to admit that his hands were quivering as he eased past sixty, seventy, eighty, ninety miles per hour. This was very definitely illegal but the car wasn't even beginning to protest. It felt so easy. Ninety five, ninety six, ninety seven... Marluxia led him off into an old Roman road (it had to be, it stretched off like a ruler onto the horizon) devoid of cars and ninety eight, ninety nine...

Vexen changed gear and willed himself just to inch his toes forwards another millimetre and break into triple digits, blood pounding in his ears. It shouldn't have been so significant, he'd been on trains coasting at two hundred and aeroplanes God knew what speed soaring through the air - but here, he had total control. If he wanted to swerve, he could. If he wanted to break so hard Marluxia's pretty face smashed into the dashboard, _nothing was stopping him_. And Vexen might have been a recluse and a workaholic but that didn't stop him being a _man_ and that meant that driving down a deserted A road at nearly one hundred miles per hour was something just short of orgasmic.

He leaned forwards and with a simple twitch of his ankle ripped the digital speed dial up to one-zero-zero. Up ahead, cars were turning into the road from another junction and somehow Vexen knew he wasn't going to get another chance to speed so recklessly. One ten, one twenty, one twenty five - and the incoming cars forced him to brake smoothly and reconnect with the traffic and the correct side of the law.

His throat was parched with the rush of adrenaline the ride had triggered and it wasn't until several minutes later of driving well under the speed limit that he managed to speak.

"Wow."

"I didn't know you liked cars," Came Naminé's voice, a little distantly, from the back seat. Marluxia laughed and leaned over.

"Sweetheart, he's got a penis. Of course he likes cars. It's a universal constant."

Naminé duly giggled as Vexen tried to ignore the returning truth that Marluxia was right and this was Marluxia's car and there Marluxia was seducing Naminé so effortlessly and he didn't even need to turn around to know that Naminé was blushing. He had half a mind to scrape the gorgeous, flawless car against some heady goods vehicle and gouge some character building scratches in the paintwork but he knew he could never follow the thought through.

"Where do you want me to pull over?" He asked bluntly, instead.

Marluxia shrugged and somehow managed to still look elegant.

"Just wherever's next convenient."

Vexen's focus returned to the road. If he had anything to do with it, 'next convenient' was going to be their final destination.

And Vexen could practically feel the disdainful looks of this upmarket department store's employees and patriots as Marluxia led his "two favourite blondes" in through the pillared doors and across the marble floor. With a smile, a kiss and a note pressed into the palm of a hand, one smartly dressed worker ushered them through to the clothing department. Vexen practically baulked as he caught sight of the first price tag, no matter how good the clothes looked. His entire wardrobe probably cost the same as just one polo shirt here; Marluxia was wasting no time throwing Vexen into a gaggle of not entirely displeased females for them to take his measurements. They manhandled him with their deft fingers and tape measures and Vexen silently vowed not to admit that he enjoyed the experience as much as he did. That endeavour over, he was led through aisles upon aisles of formal wear, casual wear, night wear, underwear... Here and there Marluxia would pluck out clothes and pile them onto what seemed to be his personal assistant, with Naminé's help. Finally when the heap reached the poor woman's chin, they made their way to the dressing rooms.

Vexen was passed what seemed to serve as an outfit and immediately encountered problems.

"I'm supposed to _wear_ this?"

"Yes."

The reply had been so definitive that all Vexen could do was sigh and begin to strip off his old, ugly and _comfortable_ clothes to make way for a tight pair of black jeans and a matching shirt that was loose and not entirely opaque. The shirt was easy enough, resting openly on Vexen's bony shoulders - but the trousers were more of a problem.

"I can't even get these Goddamn things over my bottom!"

If he'd expected anything, it wasn't for Marluxia to sweep aside the curtain and step in, spinning Vexen around to face the back wall and pressing one hand to an exposed buttock, sliding the jeans over before reaching around to buckle up the belt. Vexen found himself with his hands pressed against the wall in an entirely submissive manner and Marluxia's arms around his waist, tongue dangerously close to his ear.

"It's a sad state of affairs when a grown man can't even dress himself," Marluxia murmured, so softly, laying his body against Vexen's back.

"I can!" Vexen spluttered indignantly. "It's not _my_ fault that these jeans are so Goddamn- tight..."

Naminé had peeped in to check that everything was okay, and had flushed red at the sight of Marluxia pinning Vexen to the wall.

"M-Marluxia," She stuttered, fiddling with her thumbs, "I'm not sure Vexen appreciates that..."

Marluxia chuckled a little and pulled away, tucking the shirt in to the perfect degree and no less than shoving Vexen out of the cubicle and into Naminé's view. Under the spotlight, Vexen wriggled uncomfortably.

"I can hardly feel my- my_self_ in these jeans," He muttered sourly, catching himself in a nearby full length mirror. "You don't actually expect me to ever wear these, do you?"

Marluxia laughed at him.

"Of course not. I'm just savouring the memory."

Vexen turned to critically study himself in the mirror. The fabric of the jeans was stretched taut across his hips, the price to pay for their smooth contortion around his legs. The shirt hung from him - he had to admit, it was airy and comfortable - but the loose silk dwarfed his frame. Besides-

"You can see my nipples through this!"

The outburst made even little Naminé stifle a giggle, and Marluxia outright sniggered.

"That's the point. Come on, you, we've got a lot of clothes to get through."

He pushed a new, more colourful, set of clothes into Vexen's arms and turned to the assistant.

"Darling? Go fetch some trousers from the women's aisle, would you,"

Vexen almost dropped the hideously expensive clothes he was holding.

"_What._"

Marluxia made an hourglass figure with his hands.

"Vexen, in the nicest possible way, mens' trousers just don't fit you."

Actually, Vexen, with wide hips and long legs, had never had much of a problem: he just bought pairs that were three sizes too large and they hung like drapery around him. But, granted, that wasn't particularly fashionable. But not, in Vexen's opinion, unfashionable enough to warrant cross dressing. _Nothing_ was unfashionable enough.

"The answer is _still_ no."

"Hear me out, they'll feel more comfortable," Marluxia promised. And loathe as Vexen was to admit it as he stepped nervously out in a snug knitted jumper and linen slacks, he was right.

* * *

Weighed down by tons of clothing that Marluxia had deemed fashionable and Vexen had deemed Not Too Embarrassing plus two suits that were being tailor made to fit his measurements - Vexen didn't know if he'd ever manage to wear them to work; his figure was just too weird to ever find a fitting suit in the common market - they stopped off for lunch at an expensive restaurant. Marluxia made Vexen change into one of his new outfits in the toilets and he returned, blushing a little, in neat and tidy trousers that rested evenly against his legs and a sky blue shirt.

"Wow," Naminé said softly as he sat down. "You look really nice."

That really didn't help the reddened state of Vexen's face, particularly when Naminé leaned over and gently raked her fingers though his hair to tie it into a pony tail at the base of his neck. He'd never looked _nice_ before. He'd never looked anything short of the lanky, gangly male he'd always been.

Lunch was flawlessly presented, a wholesome carrot soup that simply tasted of a hundred different spices combined to form just that perfect flavour followed by fancy sandwiches with fancy lettuces and fancy drinks in fancy cocktail glasses. Vexen felt like he'd stepped into another universe, at such odds with packed lunches eaten out of crumpled tin foil in his everyday life. No wonder Marluxia was so alien, if he lived like this.

Marluxia paid the bill and they left for a little run of boutiques; if Vexen had felt out of place before that was nothing compared to inside the first little shop, outfitted with flowers and gorgeous summer dresses. Even Naminé, in a white smock and jeans, looked twenty times more comfortable flitting like a plain butterfly between the mannequins. Vexen stuck to the edges as Marluxia leaned over her shoulder and talked to her in hushed, silky tones, then plucked out a beautiful knee length floral dress for her. She slipped with it into the changing room, and appeared a few minutes later an angel.

Vexen simply didn't know what to say.

"What do you think?" Naminé asked shyly, twirling in the dress. White and pink with blue hints, it curved perfectly over her breasts and fell in folds from her hips. Every part of her petite figure, it accentuated perfectly; the essence of her smile itself seemed to be captured in the dress. She was beautiful.

Vexen did not know how to articulate this, so he simply nodded approvingly.

"You... you look really pretty," He said, and immediately wished that his mind could have supplied a better synonym because she was not just pretty, she was gorgeous without being sensual and perfect without being unreal.

She smiled at him.

"Thanks,"

"It really suits you," Vexen persisted blindly, acutely aware of how he stumbled in the unfamiliar territory. It should not have been so hard to compliment a girl, but Vexen felt as though his first statement could not do her justice. "You look... you look stunning."

Naminé wafted over, eyes twinkling, and playfully bopped him on the nose.

"It's just a summer dress," She said. Vexen sighed a little, feeling embarrassed.

"But I don't often see you in dresses,"

"That's because I don't have any," Naminé admitted suddenly seeming disheartened.

"It's okay," Vexen said blandly. "I don't have any dresses, either."

This lame attempt at a joke cheered Naminé up considerably; she laughed and even gave Vexen a hug. In the middle of the boutique. For a moment he thought he'd explode.

"That's a pity," Somebody said smoothly behind him and he turned to find Marluxia smiling all too devilishly at his body. "I think you'd look rather dashing in a dress."

As if women's trousers weren't bad enough!

"Absolutely not," Vexen snapped instantly as Marluxia passed Naminé another dress and she disappeared to change.

"I know a boutique along this lane that specialises in men's dresses," Marluxia said offhandedly, ghosting one hand across Vexen's taut stomach. Vexen flinched and shot Marluxia the stoniest glare he could summon.

"_No_."

"One day," Marluxia promised softly with a kiss Vexen wasn't quick enough to duck away from. "One day."

And the two men sat down and patiently commented as Naminé span around in dress after dress after dress and at the end of the day and countless stores, she had in her arms a pile of decorative boxes and tissue paper, and the widest grin on her face.

And... that upset Vexen, as he climbed into the back seat of Marluxia's gorgeous car, because that was why Naminé was happy. Because of Marluxia, because of Marluxia's money and Marluxia's charity and all the new dresses piled on her lap. And how could Vexen ever compete with that? He was gangly and reclusive and awkward and broke. And Marluxia... Marluxia was everything Naminé could ever want. She had no use for him.

It all made sense in Vexen's mind, until Naminé didn't buckle herself in by the window. Until she crawled over into the middle of car and plugged herself in there, the beautiful boxes containing beautiful dresses cast aside. Until she took his hand in the flashing darkness, pressed a soft kiss to his cheek and settled on his shoulder.

Marluxia could not have driven slowly enough as Naminé closed her eyes and smiled, one dainty hand resting ever-so-slightly against his thigh. And in Vexen's head he could not fathom the logic, could not see sense in Naminé's actions. She had Marluxia's perfect riches, she had Larxene's female charm. What need could she possibly have for Vexen?

But if the equation didn't match up in Vexen's mind, as Naminé sleepily crawled into bed with_ him_, him with bony elbows and cold feet, it made perfect sense in his heart.

* * *

From the Blondes!Verse. Ahaha, not even Blondes is safe from the Transformers references. For those of you who don't know, the Decepticons are the bad guys and the Autobots are the good guys, and Perceptor is an ultra-nerd and Starscream is... well, he's the Marluxia of Transformers.

In other news, yes, one day Marluxia did get Vexen into a dress. Hurr.


	54. 107 Future

**107 - Future**

Naminé knows the exact time and date that she first met the love of her life. It's right there, taped into her scrapbook - twelve fifty, end of last tutoring period, the third of May. And she remembers it just as clearly as the neat handwritten lines, a meeting that did not occur by chance but orchestrated awkwardness.

It was twelve fifty, and indeed the end of her last tutoring period of the day. As usual, she'd collected up her stuff and slung her bag over her shoulder, and slipped out of the classroom. What was _un_usual was the comprehensively harassed-looking young man bend over with his hands on his knees, panting. Altruistic by nature, Naminé leaned over to check that he was okay.

"Hullo? Are you alright there?"

The man straightened immediately to an impossible height, as though God had taken a perfectly normal man and stretched him into somebody else, tall and thin with a long face and even longer flaxen locks.

"N-Naminé."

There was a pause as Naminé opened her mouth to politely ask if she knew the odd fellow from somewhere, a school dance, perhaps, but he spoke again.

"I mean- Naminé?"

"That's me," Naminé confirmed with a little smile. But the man just looked at her, mouth hanging a little slackjawed and face red as a beetroot. Finally, as Naminé began to ask if he needed help, he let out a little gasp and swore peculiarly.

"Oh, bother."

Nobody had said bother since the fifties, and certainly not with such uptight, stilted diction. Naminé, at a loss, watched the man pull a notecard of all things from his pocket and scan the scribbled words.

"Um. You don't know me."

"That explains why I don't recognise you," Naminé helpfully supplied. The man's shoulders sagged beneath a rather adorably dorky sweatervest that fitted and a long sleeved shirt that really didn't.

"I, um. I've been watching you. Oh, no- I mean-! I've noticed you around. Oh, blast. This is embarrassing. Um. Just forget you ever saw me."

He ducked his head as though bowing, scrabbling with the notecard. It fell from his clumsy fingers and before he could grab it, Naminé had plucked it from the floor.

"What's this for?" She asked, pulling out some words from the contracted mess. "Vexen? Is that your name?"

Horrified, the man snatched the card away, nervously pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

"N-Nothing. Well. I. I'm n-not very good. At. At this."

Naminé gently prised the card from Vexen's fingers and read aloud:

"Twelve fifty, art room four-oh-four. Last period although may have plans with friends equals _abort immediately_. Offer coffee. _Introduce first_. Compliment dress/hair/shoes. Do not admit knowing favourite café. This will sound _creepy_ (underlined twice). Play off as coincidence. Any time is convenient!"

"I've never asked a girl out before," Vexen admitted in a whisper that was barely audible in the clearing corridor. He made a feeble grab for the notecard, but soon gave up and shuffled his feet instead. He looked morbidly terrified.

"I'll go now. Um. Sorry to bother you."

Naminé had just finished deciphering Vexen's scribbled out list of convenient times, just in time to catch his arm as he tried to make a break for freedom.

"Hey, Vexen. I'm free tomorrow afternoon if you'd like."

* * *

Vexen's by the mantelpiece when he feels nimble fingertips slide across the taut expanse of his stomach and a nose press neatly against his spine. He's been looking at all the photos they've amassed in a fit of nostalgia, but now his attention's diverted by the subject of all his favourite memories.

"Morning, sweetheart."

She giggles a little, sneaking around to lay herself against his chest. They're hardly flush any more and haven't been for, oh, about six months. It sets Vexen's heart a flutter every time he thinks about it, every time the realisation that still hasn't quite dawned sinks in a little further: he's going to be a father. He's a married man and his gorgeous little wife is eight-and-a-half months pregnant and in fourteen days' time he's going to be a_ Dad_.

He rests his chin on top of her head and casts his eyes again over the photographs. Most are of her; she just lends herself to the camera's lens, with fair skin and fair hair and wide, baby blue eyes. There's her on the beach, her in the trailing wedding dress that perfectly mapped her curves, her bundled up like a marshmallow in the Alps, squealing at the grinning pinkette who'd hoisted her into his arms. That's the one time Vexen's allowed Marluxia to invade his precious collection, one whose decorative frames span the house. Well. Aside from the family portraits, because whether he likes it or not, Marluxia - Naminé's spunky and perverted older cousin - is family.

Vexen shakes his head of memories of Marluxia and ever so gently eases Naminé into his arms. He can pick her up now, and that's Marluxia's fault: it's not like he'd ever admit it, but he was always jealous that Marluxia could - and frequently_ did_ - and he was too weak.

He carries Naminé to the sofa and lowers himself down with meticulous care, laying one hand against her distended stomach. If he concentrates, he can feel the baby kicking. Naminé smiles and rests her own hand atop his. Vexen pulls them closer and brings their lips together into a kiss.

And he is, quite literally, holding the future in his hands.

It's a bright one.


	55. 109 Stitches

**109 - Stitches**

Marluxia wakes to the bleak sterility of a hospital ward.

Thoughts are slow to return.

The room is empty bar his mind's wavering presence, but the bunches of flowers and cards propped up against the windowsill suggest that he has not been alone. Marluxia reaches over, wincing as pain shoots through his side, and plucks one card out from the crowd. It's signed by two dozen people he's never met before. He sets it back down.

When he's feeling better he'll sort the cards into two groups: friends and fans. He knows there won't be any from his family. They don't care any more. He's hoping that Vexen will have thought to leave a note... but he doubts it.

There's also a newspaper. Marluxia squints at it through bleary eyes: _Star Singer In Shocking Crash_. There's his photograph and what must have been the car that hit him.

To be honest, he was too high to realise the lights streaking through the darkness were not fireflies, but headlamps.

He lies back down again.

Every inch of his body hurts, dully. He lifts his hospital gown aside and sees ugly threads of stitches holding him together.

He thinks he needs more than surgical thread to fix him.


	56. 111 Ambulance

**111 - Ambulance**

_... Huh. The old gut just doesn't fold down quite the way it used to._

Ratchet sighs a little, scratching aimlessly at his left arm's war wound as he watches the young bots race around the pitch. Human culture's been seeping into Cybertron ever since the two planets made contact - and football is no exception. Personally, Ratchet doesn't see the point - but they enjoy it well enough.

Today Optimus Prime and his ragtag band of maintenance bots - minus their aged war veteran, of course, - are waging battle against Rodimus Prime's far more organised team plus Jazz, who's there to make up the numbers. The ball's a gaudy organic thing with a strange sort of bounce to it that takes some getting used to.

Ratchet's supposed to be refereeing, but hell if _he_ knows the rules. And the Jet twins, on a rare day off from training, are cheering for which ever side has the ball. They don't seem to get it either.

There's a cheer as Bumblebee scores a victorious goal in the back of the net, and the game moves on. Ratchet notes down another point for Optimus Prime's team - the two sides are even now, eighteen all, but he knows that Rodimus still has the advantage.

Although, of course, he's secretly rooting for Optimus. _Kid's got a good spark, he has_.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ratchet notices two feminine figures pass by the pitch and stop, intrigued by the action. They're followed by a league of newly-protoformed bots who gaggle around their legs, optics bright and chestplates shiny.

_Arcee became a teacher again. It was just in her programming._

Ratchet heaves himself up from his bumpers and lopes over. There's a cacophony of noise as Ironhide skids past Bulkhead to once again secure the upper hand. Nineteen-eighteen. _Come on, Prime. You defeated Megatron, surely you can kick a ball across a pitch._

"Arcee. Red Alert."

They both nod in acknowledgement.

"Ratchet. It's good to see you again."

Ratchet scratches the back of his head, feeling a little awkward. Femmes do that to him. Never quite know what's going on inside a femme's head.

"How's the old processor?" He asks of Arcee as Red Alert turns to watch the game with a typically stoic expression. "Everything all good?"

"I'm fine, Ratchet," Arcee says softly. She doesn't talk about her war experiences much - and for good reason. Ratchet never knew her well but he was there with her and he understands. "And you? You're alright too?"

Ratchet shrugs.

"Same old."

He turns back to the heated match where Prowl's within an inch of pushing the ball into the net. Arcee rearranges her class up against the sidelines and speaks to them in motherly tones. A few cluster around Red Alert, ask her questions in high, tinny voices. She's not quite sure.

"What's the purpose of this... training exercise?"

Ratchet chuckles gruffly.

"It's a game," He says. "For fun."

However, it looks like the ones having the most fun are Jetfire and Jetstorm, cheering and whooping from the other edge of the pitch in their thick accents and illegible dialects.

"_We are to be playing the winners_!"

The players are utilising all their skills with typical Cybertronian austerity and discipline to propel the ball backwards and forwards across the field. They've been playing all day. First team to twenty-one wins. They've attracted quite a crowd here and there, and a few have even bet energon on who'll win. Most people think that Rodimus' team will and - as they score yet another and up their total to twenty - Ratchet doesn't blame them.

But he still wants Optimus to win.

He wanders away from Arcee and Red Alert, only glancing back occasionally - Arcee catches him and waves, leading him to bashfully duck his head and raise his servo in return. With some impressive footwork and rare co ordination and teamwork, Bulkhead fires the ball past Hot Shot and now Team Optimus only need two more points to win. Ratchet's sure that using wrecking balls as propulsion isn't quite within the rules of the game, but it's not _hands_ so Ratchet lets it slide.

Across the pitch he catches the Twins leaping up for an air-bound high five, which is odd because five clicks ago they were cheering for Rodimus.

Ratchet sighs, a smile reaching his lips as he levers himself back down to watch the last throws of the game. Hah, if Sari were here to watch this. She'd love it. Probably want to get involved, too, but all the enthusiasm in the world can't make her on par with a group of twenty foot tall robots. Optimus scores again with a stunt that looks suspiciously like a typical Academy-bot move and they're even. It's all on the last goal...

Jazz snatches the ball away for a moment but Bumblebee catches him out on a corner and passes to Prowl. Ratchet doesn't even realise he's holding his breath until Rodimus' tackle has proved unsuccessful and the ball lands straight into Optimus' feet, flies through the air and bounces victoriously in the net.

Ratchet leans back, grinning as the two Primes shake hands and extend friendly words. It was a good game. _Should have a rematch some time. Hah, you won't get lucky twice. Wanna bet?_

Glancing over at Arcee, Ratchet can see the excitement in her face as the young bots go wild, cheering and shouting to the players. Hey, who knows, maybe this new-fangled football thing could catch on.

* * *

This is relevant because Ratchet is an ambulance. Yeah.

From Transformers Animated; if anybody's confused... you should probably just watch the show. It's all on YouTube.


	57. 113 Ancient

**113 - Ancient**

_Ancien Régime_

Hah! And she thought she could steal his love from her, did she? Well, Larxene thinks as she tightly binds the glass mask to her face, her pretty little mind has never been so wrong.

He is with her. He is always with her. And he thinks that he can cast her away without repercussions? That she will weep at the church, a broken damsel? They think she has fled.  
She is here.

She watches with a morbid curiosity all the death's spells the apothecary conjures. Better to be here than where she can see _them_ gaze into each other's eyes.

What's this, up here on this shelf, of the beautiful azure hue? Larxene toys with the irony, the sweet tasting liqueur. Sure to sit forever on the mistress' tongue.

Oh, but for one drop of the poison! She'd hide it in plain sight, and her enemies would curse themselves for their stupidity - the decorative basket, of course, the ring - all with secrets, shadows, the promise of beautiful illustrious death.

All it takes is a mere lozenge, a trifle and Aqua will fall in her impeccable skirting. And in _his_ arms, Larxene can see it now so clearly in her mind - she will drop dead.

She hurries the apothecary along - too dull! Larxene wants Aqua to see the enticing colour of her own fatal poison, to stir it into her own drink, to unwittingly bring about the demise she so deserves.

Only so much? Aqua's no petite minion. Not like Larxene. Her perfect curves ensnared him and as long as she lives he will never tear his eyes from her magnificent body. No.

She thought, Larxene tells the ageing man who shuffles about the dingy room, clearing and fixing, that if she could bear to keep her eyes on that witch for just thirty seconds, she would fall. And yet she stood - this does it all.

Will it hurt? She asks. The apothecary gives her naught but a wry grin. Not, she adds, that she wants to spare her rival the pain. Let her suffer, let her burn, and let him see her perish. He will remember.

He hands over the phial, her whole fortune's worth. She won't remove her mask, the risk's too high.

_If it hurts her, beside, can it ever hurt me?_

Take it all, she says, all her valuable jewellery, her riches. It means nothing to her any more. She has what she wants. Kiss me, she says, laughing a giddy laugh.

_Ere I know it - next moment I dance at the King's!_

* * *

Based on the poem _The Labatory_ by Robert Browning (1845), which I studied in English a while back. I always imagined the apothecary to be Vexen and the woman as Larxene, but it wasn't until Birth By Sleep came out that I had the perfect roles for Pauline and Elise - Aqua and Terra. The lines in italics are direct quotes. _The Labatory_, if you're interested, can easily be found via Google.


	58. 115 Scenery

**115 - Scenery**

"He'll be here soon."

The sun's setting over the hills about now, casting its golden hue over the valley, and the world is silent. It's not the silence of emptiness, the silence denoting a lack of life. It's a silence that is otherworldly, a silence of reception, a silence of coming. Even Even's voice sounds alien to Lumaira's deafened ears.

A susurrus tremors through the grass in a curve that glides with perfect grace to the crest of the hill. Lumaira turns, the water of the stream lapping around his ankles. Ripples amplify across the surface of the water, still as a mill pool. A breeze plucks itself from the unearthly stillness and blows around Lumaira's legs, directionless and motionless and unreal.

Unconsciously, he reaches out for Even's hand. The grass rustles again, and Lumaira's focus snaps suddenly as he thinks he catches a flash of emerald amongst the meadow flowers. But as soon as he sees it it's gone with the wind.

Time itself seems to stop, as another emerald glow shines for the briefest of seconds then is extinguished. Lumaira waits, in breathless astonishment.

The wind carries the next ember for long enough to trace its unpredictable curves and flourishes before it fades. Then another meets a fourth, and countless flashes weave through the plants, leaving the barest hint of movement in their wake. Just feet from Lumaira they begin to collect, pool in the grass, create a fleeting hand, the vestiges of a face.

Even's fingers are tight around his palm, a landline to a reality he created himself. And here is the explanation in mystic incomprehensibility, fifteen years lost and fifteen years broken.

The resemblance is as though a reflection in a mirror. The creatures eyes solidify and open, its legs spreading for a first step into the human world. The last of the ethereal, dreamlike jade fades into tanned skin, brunette hair and blue, blue eyes.

Lumaira knows this stranger well. It's the stranger on the mantelpiece, the stranger who broke his mother's heart, the stranger who he sees every morning before breakfast and the stranger that he never knew would have a power to change the destinies of forgotten lives.

Numbly, he lifts his hand and there's a spark, an actual _spark_ where their palms interlink.

Marluxia hasn't aged a day since Naminé fell in love.

"Lumaira," He says, voice as though through impenetrable glass.

Two worlds that were never meant to collide. A hundred thousand thoughts crash into Lumaira's mind and disappear in an instant. He looks up and into his stranger's eyes, praying that when he opens his mouth his throat won't tighten into brittle parchment.

The wind blows and the man's image flickers. Lumaira speaks.

"_Father._"

* * *

Blackbird. I supposed that those of you who read the 1,000PC deserve to find this out a little ahead of time.


	59. 117 Glee

**117 Melody**

If this was a joke, it was a bad one. Did Larxene really think it was funny to push his poor best friend into the music room one Tuesday at lunchtime and make him sing to a dozen or more expectant faces? Judging by his devilish expression as Naminé stumbled forwards to stand by the piano, flushing heavily. He knew Larxene'd wiggle his way out of reciting three lines of a familiar rhyme which just left him, at the front of the classroom, clearing his throat and stuttering over the first bars.

It wasn't that Naminé couldn't sing. He'd loved it as a kid, and could still hold a tune even four years after his voice had broken. But the embarrassment, the risk of hesitating or slurring or missing a high note, was paramount and even if Naminé could sing in the shower, on the school field, on the way home from school or at manic parties where nobody was listening, he could not sing in front of people. Self-consciousness overtook his vocal chords and left him a pitiful mess, ducking his head as he scurried back to his seat. If the teacher had found any talent in that, he'd be surprised.

Next up was a pretty girl with hourglass curves and a shirt that wasn't opaque enough, flouncing confidently up to the piano. She was literally stopped on the first bar. She had everything Naminé didn't (enthusiasm, projection, clear diction and limitless self confidence); she was just missing one thing. The ability to sing.

Marluxia Gloria Arkenstone-Harcélle. Everyone in the school knew and more impressively, had probably been talked to by Marluxia Gloria Arkenstone-Harcélle. She was one of those people who had a hand in everything, held doors open and carried books for teachers, harassed first year students and flirted with sixth years, and, in her own sweet way, was one of the most conniving, underhanded, vicious bitches of the entire school. If you could trust her, you could trust her with your life. If you couldn't...

Naminé was very, very glad that Larxene was on brilliant terms with Marluxia indeed.

A few more people were called up and duly complimented or sent on their way. Here was a deep baritone, there an almost pitch-perfect soprano. Finally the choir teacher stood up and asked if anyone had been missed. Naminé glanced around the congregation of singers and suckers. Didn't look like it until a gaggle of girls parted to reveal a nervous blonde in a sweatervest hanging around the door. At the sudden attention, she ducked her head and untucked her long locks from behind her ear to shield her face. Someone asked why she was even there if she was alone and didn't want to sing and reluctantly, she shuffled up to the piano.

"Who is that?" Naminé asked Larxene in a whisper as she conversed too quietly to hear with the teacher. Marluxia cut in with blatant disregard for subtlety.

"That's Vexen," She stated matter-of-factly. "I room with her. Her favourite subjects are chemistry and maths, she hates curry, her bra size is thirty-four A and she's single. Why? You looking?"

Naminé looked up at the girl the Vexen as Larxene asked why Marluxia wasn't rooming with one of her friends and was given an appropriately disturbing answer. She wasn't unattractive, with a slim face and long limbs, but nothing special.

Not really.

The group fell into silence at the first chords from the piano. The Vexen shuffled nervously about, and at her cue began to sing.

Naminé very quickly changed his mind. Vexen wasn't just okay, she was an angel. Sounded like one, at least. Even to his sensitive ears every note that came out of her lips was perfect, in a sweet, soft tone that was just made for dreamy romantic ballads.

Vexen was halfway through the second line when the bell rang and it seemed to relocate her in front of an audience and instantly, she stopped, flushing red. Marluxia clapped at her, prompting a few others to do the same. Fantastic, the teacher was saying as the congregation began to pack up and leave. Absolutely. You'd be perfect for a solo part. As he filed out, Naminé just caught her shaking her head. She was too shy.

* * *

As luck would have it, Larxene enlisted Naminé to drop some things off at Marluxia s campus room (she'd originally come from France, or gone to France, or perhaps America because if you listened close enough you could hear the slight nasal accent to her voice, or maybe it was her parents who were in France or America the upshot of which was that she lived in the student campus next to the school) the next day. Apparently Larxene was as busy as all Hell broken loose, but Naminé doubted that because it was Saturday and Larxene was always free on Saturdays, and the items in question three fat text books were very heavy indeed.

But as luck would have it, Marluxia wasn't in and it was Vexen who opened the door to the little two-room flat. Shy himself, Naminé quickly thrust the books in the tall blonde's face, with a rushed explanation that didn't make sense even to him. Vexen laughed a little and ushered him inside.

"Cup of tea?"

"No thanks. Don t really like tea."

Vexen shrugged to herself, gesturing for Naminé to put the books on Marluxia's bed. On top of all the other junk and papers and dirty clothes, yeah.

"You were really good the other day," Naminé ventured as he found a place in the chair by the desk. "At Glee Club."

Vexen instantly turned pink.

"Th-thank you. You were good too."

"I was a mess," Naminé laughed, glancing at the papers on the desk. Immaculate chemistry and maths work.

"It was a well pitched mess, though," Vexen laughed. She faltered when Naminé didn't immediately join in, so he reassured her with a chuckle of his own.

"Thanks. I think."

"Miss said she thought you'd be good," Vexen continued as she poured herself a cup of tea and fruit juice for Naminé, "You know, if you actually sang. Are you coming along next week?"

Naminé quickly shook his head.

"I only went because Larxene dragged me. And he didn't even sing."

"But you've got real talent," Vexen protested.

And she was, actually, kind of cute. Naminé blushed, scratching the back of his neck.

"Well, I don't know..."

"If you don't , there won t be enough people and we'll have to enlist Marluxia's help," Vexen said.

Oh, God. Marluxia. Marluxia needed to realise that she couldn't sing. Naminé sighed.

"Well..."

"Please?"

Naminé really didn't have a choice. And if this was a joke, he didn't mind being the butt of it.

* * *

From Sushibee's and my genderbender AU, Glee. Please ignore the no doubt multitudes of errors; FF's being a bitch today.


	60. 119 Hardly

**119 - Hardly**

Even fears him these days. Before he might have smiled weakly when she was asleep, hold her close and kiss her eyes and let salty teardrops splash on her face. He might have enjoyed a secret moment when her attention was diverted by the television, he might have stolen her away for a few precious seconds in the mindless heat of pleasure.

Now it is only when he is sleeping that Even might climb from the arms that do not love him and find solace in loneliness and secret lies. Now Even hides. Even barely exists behind the green green eyes that he gave away, now his life is pretending to keep at bay the sickening tendrils of darkness consuming him inside.

Now sometimes he will listen to her breaths until asphyxiation gives out, now sometimes he will run until his lungs scream for reprise. She knows something is wrong but he will not lie and Even will not tell the truth. He has not been crying. He is fine. He is happy, he is success and accomplishment, he is a monster beneath smiling eyes and an easy-going, witty personality.

He is not real either. If she knew they would both have nothing. University degrees and scores of pages of unwritten thesis would not save them.

Even fears him these days.

* * *

Even cannot go far these days. Before he might have travelled a mile, two miles, in the bitter streetlight darkness, return with hair blackened by rain. Before he might have slid his hands across her perfect skin but it does not belong to him and now he watches from a distance. Even hides behind him, in the body that is not his and the life that he created at the expense of himself.

Sometimes now he staggers down to the kitchen where the knives are. Sometimes he presses his nose to the crook of her neck and breathes deeply until her hair is saturated with water. Sometimes he runs her a shallow bath and makes her beautiful again for the morning's shrill alarm.

But he never pushes boundaries. He never stays long. He never runs far. He never interrupts. He never cuts deep.

Even cannot go far these days.

* * *

Some nights she wakes.

Sometimes she asks _where were you out for the last three hours the bed was cold without you why weren't you here_ and the ravine cracks a little wider, the gorge erodes a little deeper. Sometimes she says _you've been crying why have you been crying_ and he laughs and says _don't be silly, why would I cry when I have you_ and Even screams because all he is is a flicker in the expression that she will not catch.

Sometimes she's not around, at college or down at the shops or in the little café and he hides in a private corner and sinks into the way Even feels and he is derisive and cruel and Even tips a little further.

* * *

Some nights it's close, she sees him at the kitchen table and he pretends to be reading the newspaper, draws his sleeves to his thumbs and drops the knife down onto his lap. She hugs him sometimes, wraps her arms around his neck and he wonders if maybe she's tired of guessing and guessing wrong and will tighten around him until his heart stops and his brain dies.

Sometimes she doesn't know and he's Even and she'll smile at him and say _I love you_ and looks at her as a smile and a signature softness returns seamlessly and thinks, no, she does not love Even, she loves him.

Sometimes he wonders how his lifetime dream could become his worst nightmare.

* * *

She doesn't ask questions any more.

* * *

She doesn't ask questions any more. She knows that he is hardly right, she knows that he is lying, she knows that the conversations between a heartless man and a broken boy are not dreams, she knows that when blood drips from his palm it was not an accident but the pieces are scattered and she cannot slot them together.

She's fed up of seeing him with red eyes and saying _you've been crying why have you been crying_ and getting the flat untruth that _don't be silly, why would I cry when I have you_. Well, maybe he's got her but she doesn't get him, not any more. He's been breaking but he's _absolutely fine, never been better_, and the fleeting pain across his eyes are no product of her imagination but he's fine, _absolutely fine, never been better_.

She doesn't ask questions any more.

* * *

They grow distant, grow meaningless. The passion disappears, the trust is betrayed.

She doesn't ask questions any more.

* * *

One night she wakes with empty arms. She knows where he will be. In the kitchen having _accidents_ that she's not allowed to see.

She slips from the bed and pads down the stairs. The kitchen door is closed and for a few minutes she presses her back against it, listening to the sobs fall thick and uneven. Where will he be, leaned over the counter, in a ball on the floor, at the table _reading the newspaper_?

She eases the door open. His head snaps up and there's a moment of reality before the lies set in. He smiles at her.

_I thought you'd be asleep._

_I never sleep well any more._

He's the first to turn away and she knows that it's not him, it's not the liar, because the liar truly believes that his pretend reality is real. This is the other him that she sees fleetingly, that cries and clings and cowers and cuts. This is the him that truly wishes that he could believe his pretend reality is real.

She sees through the_ I'll be up in a few minutes_, sees the hilt of the knife extend from the newspaper, and asks _are you okay._

Everything snaps. The liar returns, laughing shortly and folding the paper into quarters, standing with a creak of the chair.

_Absolutely_ he says. She sighs inwardly and wishes that she could confront him and look him in the eye and point to his chest and say _hardly_.

* * *

One night she wakes with empty arms and hears quiet breaths at the desk in their bedroom. He's illuminated by moonlight through the curtains, head hanging and fingers laced in his hair. She sits up, slowly, so she makes nothing more than a rustle of bedsheets. It's not him, it's the other him that is weak, the him that is insecurity and uncertainty and breaking.

_Vexen_ she says quietly. The is no reply. _Vexen, come to bed._

_He isn't here_ the man who isn't Vexen says thickly. _He won't be here until morning_.

She slips from the warmth under the duvet and carefully approaches the not-Vexen. Anything could snap him back to the liar, the man who she fell in love with and changed into something she can barely recognise.

He fingertips touch his neck and he flinches away from her, wrought with tension that never eased.

He moves his hands away from his head and there are dark patches in his hair. Blood.

_How did that happen_ she asks. _Accident with the bread knife_ is the dull reply.

_Come to bed with me_.

She takes him in her hands, the him that hides and the him that feels pain and feels shame and the him that cannot lie. She lifts him on shaky legs and carries him on unsteady feet onto the mattress, into a deep embrace that is not so much loving as desperate.

_Who are you_ she asks. There is no reply as his bleeding wrists seep into her pyjamas, his Goddamn _accident with the bread knife_ but it's him, the him who is imperfect and scared and pretending to be strong and successful and happy at the expense of his life.

She holds him close, runs her hands over his prickling skin and kisses his tears away.

_I love you_ she says softly._ I love you_ until his convulsive sobs recede, _I love you_ until he lies close and still, _I love you_ until he is neither lying or hiding, _I love you_ whoever you are.

Hours later he sleeps. In the morning Naminé will ask questions but for now the man whose name she does not know sleeps.


	61. 121 Drive

**121 - Drive**

It's been approximately six cycles since Marluxia first suggested _it_, and they are no nearer to fathoming the logistics of that than they were before.

It took quite some explanations at first, when such conversations were bound to arise, and when it comes to making _that_ unromantic nothing is more apt than explanations. But Marluxia hasn't got a - and he _definitely _hasn't got a - and even if he did, it would be far, far, horrifically far too big.

"Well, what if we tried-" Marluxia begins, then winces a little, and shakes his head again.

"Can't you, I don't know," He replies haltingly, "I mean, haven't you even got a-"

Marluxia shakes his head.

"No. I haven't."

"But aren't you infused with-"

"Well, yes, but I don't think it works like that."

"It's better than anything _you've_ come up with."

Marluxia rolls his eyes.

"So what am I supposed to do, just crawl into your cockpit?"

"It's worth a try."

"And getting fried to death by the massive electrical discharge?" Marluxia drawls sardonically.

They're silent for a few more cycles.

Eventually Starscream sighs, sitting back.

"This isn't going to work," He says. Marluxia thinks for a few more minutes, then gives up and shakes his head.

"No." He says, tugging his clothes back on. "It isn't."

But as Starscream plucks his Kiss Player up into claws he barely knew were capable of such care, he knows they won't stop thinking there. It's the problem with sex drives (in some cases literally) - despite their utter physical incompatibility they'll always be looking for some kind of intimate release together, be it orgasm or overload.

* * *

MarScream. It will overtake your mind. These two are perfect for each other. Despite, ahem, certain... physical difficulties. My bet is that these two overcharged, devious individuals will overcome their differences and have the creepiest fantastic alien sex ever witnessed.

Starscream is of course the evil pink Decepticon from Transformers Animated, more specifically my fanfic _All Tied Up and Ready_.


	62. 123 Chapters

**123 - Chapters**

It's when Marluxia wakes up to the six thirty alarm and Vexen _doesn't_ that the pink haired boy realises that something's not right. He's in Vexen's not-really-even-a-bed again, because Vexen has a comfortable chest even if his feet are cold, and being a tangle of limbs trapped in the duvet has always been, in Marluxia's opinion, the best way to sleep.

Groaning, he rolls over to hit the alarm, catching Vexen's leg as he loses his balance amongst the sheets. The older boy groans a little, although it's practically a whimper, and doesn't wake.

Marluxia prods him.

Marluxia kicks him.

Marluxia reaches up and kisses his forehead - and feels beneath his lips clammy skin, burning up under a sheen of sweat.

Marluxia untangles himself from the mess, rearranges Vexen into a position that looks vaguely comfortable, and runs out of the little converted box room to shake his mother awake next door. He's a babble of insanity and waving arms as his mother grabs her dressing gown and slips out into the corridor, muttering something about Marluxia and being glued to Vexen's hip and why, they're practically _boyfriends_. But then she sees her unofficially adopted second son and falls silent, immediately dropping to her knees and pressing a palm to his forehead.

"He has a fever," She says to her biological son, soon rattling off a list of instructions for Marluxia. He dashes away and returns a few minutes later with a thermometer, an ice pack and a wet cloth, which he gently presses into his mother's hands before pulling himself around her in a loose hug, watching his best friend with earnest concern. She works quickly, taking Vexen's temperature - escalating - and laying the cloth on his head. He gains consciousness eventually, but he's hardly coherent, mumbling something that sounds a little like Marluxia's name and "ouch."

"How was he yesterday?" She asks Marluxia as the boy crawls over and digs himself into the sheets next to Vexen's sweating body, taking his hand and holding it close.

"Well, he was pretty out of it last night," Marluxia says with what serves as thoughtfulness in his heart-governed personality, "I mean, he didn't even complain when I climbed into bed with him."

Marluxia's mother chuckles a little.

"I don't know if that's sensible, little one," She says fondly. "Vexen might not be okay with sharing a bed with you."

Marluxia shrugs.

"He likes it. He cuddles me when he thinks I'm asleep."

Marluxia's mother sighs, shaking her head and standing.

"I'll move him into your room later when he wakes up a bit, and if he's not better this evening I'll take him to the doctor."

Marluxia doesn't move from his post.

"Come on then, pea. You need to get ready for school."

Marluxia gracelessly flops down onto the mattress beside Vexen and stares meaningfully at his mother. She realises that while Vexen shivers in feverish ailment, he's not going to budge.

She lets out a sigh.

"I'll go make you some breakfast then, shall I?"

Marluxia grins at her and settles down for a long weekend of cuddling Vexen better.

* * *

"We're so special," Marluxia says as he chucks the little purple box at Vexen, "We even share our medications."

Vexen, curled up on Marluxia's bed in an uncomfortable hunch, sighs as he pops a little pill from its plastic and foil haven and swallows it with a gulp of water.

"More like you're so stupid, you infected me."

Marluxia's coming out the other end now, which means that unlike Vexen he can now piss without being in excruciating agony. Vexen's still bedridden, tired and snarky, waiting for the worst of the infection to be over.

They'd gone to the hospital together, when Marluxia was worst and Vexen was still okay, and the doctor had made him pee into a little dish and oh, one more question, was he sexually active? And Marluxia had glanced at Vexen awkwardly loped over the plasticky waiting chair and burst out laughing. Yeah. Pretty damn sexually active indeed.

So it was only logical that Vexen would come down with a urine infection too, and now the two boys are whiling away the time before they're both well enough to return to their studies at school.

* * *

Marluxia knows he shouldn't call Vexen, but he can't help it. Once his homework's done in a typically half-arsed manner, boredom sets in and all he wants to do is hear Vexen's voice. Last year, things were okay, because if Vexen wanted to study, Marluxia would be perfectly content with leaning over his shoulders or resting in a loop around his body, feeling the blonde's breaths close and body warm, in a companionable silence. Now all Marluxia can do is hear Vexen's voice over a crackling phone line. It's as lonely as fuck.

The line buzzes for at least a minute before there's a click and Vexen's voice arrives, foggy and disgruntled.

"Marluxia, I'm busy."

"I was just wondering how you were," Marluxia says a little helplessly, because there's not even a hello, just a snarky reply to words he didn't even get to say.

"Busy." Vexen says curtly. His voice sounds thick.

"You don't sound so good," Marluxia says truthfully. Vexen sniffs.

"I'm fine. Just got a cold or something."

"Are you free this weekend?"

"No."

"Oh."

There's a long, awkward pause. Marluxia can't remember their relationship ever being so strained before. When they were just friends Vexen was skittish but Marluxia saw to that with every overaffectionate embrace and inappropriate cuddle in the night. When they were lovers they truly /loved/, even through every argument and disparity. Now things are unspoken, affections buried, conversation tense.

Marluxia hates it. But more than that he _fears _it, that by the end of this year he won't have a Vexen any more. He can hardly even imagine life without Vexen. He doesn't want the rest of his to be one.

"Take it easy, will you," He eventually says. "You don't want to make it worse."

"I'm not a child-" Vexen begins to snap, but there's a horrible coughing gag at the other end of the line and a clatter as the phone falls to the floor. Marluxia calls Vexen's name to no avail, listen out hard, but wherever Vexen's run to Marluxia can't hear a thing.

Eventually it's Vexen's room mate who plucks the phone from the floor.

"Marluxia?"

"Where's Vexen?" Marluxia asks, flustered and panicked. He's already pulling on his shoes although he's not sure where he'll go, because Vexen is a hundred miles away and he could never run there in one night.

"He's merrily puking his stomach out in the bathroom."

Marluxia swears loudly, half yells orders at the poor man as he grabs his wallet - he thinks he's got enough money for a train ticket - and dashes into the kitchen to scream at his mother, something about an emergency and Vexen and he'll be back on Sunday. She tries to stop him but he's gone, legs pumping and feet leaving tarmac tracks spirally away from him.

He's done a lot of running since Vexen left. It's comforting, the familiar ache of his legs and burn of his rawed windpipe. He snaps his phone shut, pockets it, skids into the railway station and hurriedly requests the next train to Cambridge. There's just one left: he's lucky. Twenty minutes.

He waits in agitation for the train to draw up then hops on. The ride is a tense one. And after the train terminates he's still got a twenty minute run in the approaching dusk to Vexen's little flat. He rings the bell, is answered by the dreadlocked flatmate.

"Where is he," He asks between gasps for breath. The man has sense enough to step aside for Marluxia to hurry in.

"He's in the bathroom."

Marluxia dashes through to find Vexen leaning over the sink, white as a sheet, hands clenched tightly around the countertop. Immediately he is at his lover's side, easing a cup of half-drinkable water to his lips and a hand rubbing the base of his back.

"Marluxia," Vexen croaks, glancing up with red eyes. "Where did you-"

Marluxia smiles thinly and shushes the blonde, holding his long hair from his face as Vexen vomits violently in the sink again. It's unpleasant, of course it's unpleasant triggering that gag reaction in the back of his throat as Vexen shudders and half collapses with weakness. But Marluxia wouldn't be anywhere else.

It's a few minutes later that he props Vexen up on the stool in the bathroom and runs to get him a few painkillers and a glass of warm, honeyed water to settle his stomach a little then tucks him up in bed. Briefly, he thinks he should give Vexen some space - they're on tenderhooks as it is - but that's soon put to rest when Vexen reaches up and pulls him, weakly, down into a hug.

* * *

Vexen's ill again.

He's not had a good spring; first he had a run of headaches and then stomach cramps, and now just a month later he's bedridden with the flu. Marluxia hates it because it's infectious and he won't be helping anybody if he catches it off Vexen - but he can't help but cuddle up to Vexen's sleeping body as he dozes through the afternoon, reading through books and sorting out vague admin work for the shop he helps out at. Occasionally he'll check Vexen's temperature, or top up his glass of water and pop in a few extra ice cubes - but for the most part, he's just there, keeping his sleeping boyfriend company as he sweats off his fever.

It's a companionable silence, broken only by the shuffle of limbs and papers or the vague murmur of a name. Marluxia keeps Vexen's hair brushed from his face and his forehead moist with kisses, hugs him gently when he wakes and whispers comforting words to him.

Larxene pops in to ask why the kettle's in the sink halfway through the afternoon and is clearly surprised to find them both fully clothed and committing no act of carnal desire. She even asks if Vexen's okay, seeing him snuggled up against Marluxia under a plethora of blankets. Marluxia chuckles a little at Larxene's reluctance to admit that she cares.

"He's just got the flu. He'll be better in a few days."

Larxene nods a little, as though she's trying to think of some snarky comeback - but she has nothing. Moments later, she shrugs her shoulders and disappears.

* * *

When Marluxia refuses to wake up five minutes after Vexen's supposed to have left, the blonde pegs it down to laziness. When Marluxia's still in bed, shivering, when Vexen returns that evening, he realises that something is very wrong.

Marluxia's eyes are puffy and narrowed, his face flushed of all colour. His fists are clenched in the duvet cover, his breaths shallow and shaky.

Vexen's immediate response is to panic.

"Marluxia?" He says uncertainly, reaching out to touch his lover's burning skin. "M-Marluxia, are you okay?"

He receives nothing in return but a groan. Gently, ever so gently, he rolls Marluxia onto his back, stares into his hidden eyes.

"Marluxia, what's wrong?"

Marluxia squeezes his eyes tightly closed and releases a painful breath.

"Just a fever," He half-whispers. "I'll be fine."

Vexen's hands skitter over Marluxia's body, a hundred nonsense questions pouring from his lips. Marluxia just laughs a little, even though it hurts him, and reaches up to press his clammy hand to Vexen's cheek.

"Just go get a glass of water and a painkiller or two," He says in the voice of somebody who knows how to look after a feverish best friend. "And a damp cloth."

Vexen nods and hurries away. His heart is skidding nineteen to the dozen, because he doesn't want Marluxia to be in pain or sick or worse, and a hundred different researched afflictions that occupy his too-analytical brain suddenly spring up to take their prey. Vexen immediately plans to call the doctor as soon as he's settled Marluxia down with the appropriate medications.

He grabs everything he thinks he needs, which includes the entire meds basket and first aid kit, and rushes back to Marluxia. He doesn't know if Marluxia needs space or cuddles or what but he coddles Marluxia all the same, fussing over him with equal care and downright flustered worry. Where's the thermometer? How does one even use it? Ice cubes or wet cloth? What goes where?

Thankfully, Marluxia's awake enough to guide him through it all and eventually they're both in the bed, one dozing and the other wringing his hands with vague half worry.

Vexen's worry only ceases when Marluxia rolls over and prods him sharply in the hip.

"I'm bored."

"You're supposed to be asleep," Vexen huffs, looking down at his lover. Marluxia's cheeks are still grey but nonetheless he's smiling hopefully. "Fine. What do you want to do."

"Read me a story," Marluxia says, and Vexen just catches a flash of the fourteen year old boy he fell in love with almost ten years ago, the boy who wasn't above using all his charms to get what he wanted and who just couldn't be said no to.

"You're too old for such nonsense," He says regardless, holding out even though he knows he'll lose.

"Mum always used to read to me when I was ill," Marluxia says with a pout. Vexen sighs.

"What do you want me to read."

"I'm halfway through that pink book on the left," Marluxia says, pointing to the bedside table where romance novels are stacked beside epic science fiction sagas. Vexen nods, leans over, and plucks it up.

"Marluxia, this is a homoerotic novel."

"It's just getting to the juicy parts!"

"I'm not reading sex scenes to you," Vexen says, making the mistake of glancing at Marluxia. He can't resist that_ look_.

"Please?"

"Fine. What chapter are you on."

Marluxia tells him with a sleepy grin as he snuggles up in Vexen's lap.

"Oh, and you've gotta do all the orgasmic voices and everything. And you're not allowed to argue, because I'm ill."

* * *

S&M Verse. You could sum up Marluxia and Vexen's life in the number of times Vexen's been ill. Poor thing.


	63. 125 Ring

**125 - Ring**

"He didn't!"

"He _did_."

Zexion was suspicious the moment that Vexen came out of his apartment block floating on air with a grin that his narrow face could barely accommodate. The way Vexen's left hand was conveniently out of sight, the way that notwithstanding the cold, Vexen's cheeks were glowing too much.

Everybody knew that Marluxia had been planning it for months. Even Vexen. But nobody was _quite_ sure when the pink haired man was going to pop the question. Apparently within the last three days.

The ring was a gorgeous thing; it was chunky enough to not be effeminate, slender enough so as not to be too masculine. Silver, fitting snugly around Vexen's spindly finger. It suited him.

"When?"

"Saturday. He took me to a fancy restaurant up in town and just as we were finishing these ridiculous little flan-things with oodles of strawberry sauce drizzled onto them, he pulled out the ring. Got down on one knee and everything. In front of everyone."

"Congratulations."

Vexen blushed a little, pocketing his hand once again. When they got to work there'd be a million billion questions, of course, until Vexen was sick of being pestered - but Vexen was engaged now. And when one was engaged one had to put up with being in the public eye. Particularly when one was engaged to another man.

"So," Zexion said as they rounded the last corner, "Are you having a big white wedding?"

Vexen laughed.

"Of course not. We're not getting married, remember? Just a little ceremony in the registry office with close friends and family, and then a party afterwards."

"So no Marluxia in a dress."

"No. Definitely not. He hasn't got the figure for it."

"Hm... unlike some."

Vexen rolled his eyes, groaning.

"You said you'd stop it with the hip jokes."

* * *

More S&M. When Vexen was finished with his doctorate and the two of them had saved up enough money for a party, Marluxia and Vexen got a civil partnership. There was, indeed, no Marluxia in a dress. There was however a Vexen in one.


	64. 127 Reflex

**127 - Reflex**

With sight gone, all other senses are heightened so the slightest creak of varnished floorboards becomes a resounding crack to his ears, the near-silent breaths of the room's other occupant heavy pinpoints, markers that he strains to connect.

Experimentally, he tugs a fraction on his restraints; a low warning growl and he quickly ceases the movement.

Left.

Bare feet pad, almost undetectable, across the floor. A heavier step, a missed floorboard. Familiar room, long since mapped by touch and sound. He tracks each movement in his mind's eye, adrenaline pumping through his bloodstream.

He almost feels a slight brush against his burning, exposed stomach and moans throatily, aching his back. There's a chuckle, right by his ear. Blindly, he snaps his head to the right but the presence is gone as suddenly as it came.

For tense seconds he can hear nothing above his own breathing. He could be anywhere.

He gasps suddenly as there is a hot breath at his groin, the lengthy, leisurely sweep of a tongue. The saliva cools quickly, chills him in the unheated room. And his captor is gone as swiftly as he came.

He holds his breath and waits for movement, a signal, a misstep that will give him the edge. Subconsciously, his fingertips clench against the black cotton that secures them in artistically inescapable bondage.

He counts the seconds by the asphyxiation in his lungs, by the pump of the restricted blood flow his body weight inflicts on his hands. He almost twists at the screech of a fox outside the window and in another world but he forces his muscles to stay in an equal state of tension. If his captor saw him flinch, silently he would laugh.

Forever, there is nothing.

Not a sound.

Not a single vibration through the floor.

No markers, no clues, no signs, no respite. Eventually he groans, lets his body slack, his legs spread wide. He's lost. He needs intimacy and release, he_ craves _it, and he can't wait a second longer for it.

There's a laugh and for a few seconds, silence. Then a metallic object clatters to the floor on his right. Sensing a careless error, his head snaps right - only for a heavy body to crash onto him from the left. He's taken by utter surprise.

"Come on, that was the simplest trick in the book."

Long hair tickles his face as a kiss that he could not have predicted reaches his lips.

Marluxia laughs a little breathlessly beneath his blindfold as hands find his prickling skin, coax him to the edge.

"Fine. You win."

Vexen laughs, nicking at Marluxia's skin in neat rows that trail across his naked body. And his blindness accentuates the sensuality, his physical restraints only send his mind spiralling further into perfect climax.

"You're pathetic."

And sometimes the insults just make Marluxia moan louder.

... Or maybe that's the deliciously hot mouth on his cock.

He's not sure any more.

* * *

From Sushi's BDSM story, _Venus in Furs_.


	65. 129 Naked

**129 - Naked**

Naminé's breaths are light and steady, the expression on her face one of peaceful, sated serenity. She looks beautiful, Vexen thinks. Like a little angel curled up against his chest, fists loose around his shoulders and blonde locks mixing with his.

Vexen reaches up to brush her fringe from her face, leans down to kiss her forehead. She grunts a little, shifts closer to his body. Her legs subconsciously tighten around his hips until he fleetingly thinks he'll have to wake one of them up to sate him again. But she lies still, her body a warm, breathing mass beside him. Vexen watches her silhouette in the half-darkness for a long time, spans his bony fingers across the curve between her ribs and her hips where her skin is silkily smooth and her comforting human heat emanates between his fingertips.

Brushing his fingers across a hand on her hip elicits a little murmur behind him, a shifting of body weight all around his flushed skin. He lets his palm rest on the back of the hand for a moment until it recedes, finds a niche in the concave curve of his own hip, caresses fuzzy golden hair.

"Still awake?"

The whisper's half awake but clear enough. Vexen twists away from Naminé and lips meet him, his cheek his nose his chin his mouth his tongue. He groans a little against the sudden - not necessarily unwanted - intrusion, and wriggles onto his back until Naminé's propped up against one side and broad hands and full lips have better access to his throat.

Even beneath the blanket insulation of a thick feather duvet, Vexen feels the conduction of heat through skin as bodies bump against him. An arm against his shoulderblade, a hand between his legs. The kisses trail, leisurely, down his chest, stopping at a nipple here, paying particular attention to the line of a rib here. Naminé hiccups a little and sleeps on.

Vexen sits up a little on his elbows and watches Marluxia descend, almost lovingly laying affections onto his body. He toys a little with his own bottom lip, holds Naminé's sleeping, naked form a little closer to his body. She's going to wake sooner or later. She's a light sleeper and when Marluxia's playing it tantalisingly slow, he finds it hard to keep his voice silent.

Not for the first time, he wonders how he's arrived here; swamped in silk bedsheets with a hundred pillows to prop him up in a room that is as effeminate as it is sophisticated, with a gorgeous teenage girl on his left and a possibly even more gorgeous twenty-something playboy on his right. He feels like a dancer in a daydream, no sense or reason in the insanity that has become his love life.

Marluxia's sucking at his hip when Naminé wakes, peering in the darkness at Vexen's doubtless rather odd expression. But she just giggles a little with a kiss to Vexen's lips.

"Starting without me?"

Marluxia really is rubbing off on her; or maybe it's just the innate sexuality he's unlocked in both of them. The sexuality that makes Vexen claw at the bedsheets and not Marluxia's pretty face. The sexuality that leads Naminé lower to greet Marluxia with another morning kiss, to sweep her miniature tongue across Vexen's opposite hip. He just manages to lift his head from the ample pillows to watch their fingers lace on his stomach, their tongues meeting around him until he can't hold in the waves of pleasure any longer and lets himself go with something that might have been a scream.

"Look at the mess you made..." Someone laughs as he swallows to catch his breath, pressing his neck against the pillows and pinching the bridge of his nose.

"You can hardly blame me."

"Mm, who said we were blaming?"

Naminé's the one who cuddles sleepily against Vexen again, kissing him softly until he licks her sticky cheeks clean. Marluxia spends more time intimately enjoying Vexen's anatomy as he is wont to do, but eventually even he returns for salty kisses and hands snug in crevices of warm skin.

Oh God, Vexen thinks as Naminé disappears to find tissues and he still has a bedmate to keep his feet warm, why does _anybody_ limit themselves to a relationship with only two people?

* * *

Blondesverse, in the distant future. We wish.


	66. 131 Cinder Blocks

**131 - Cinder-blocks**

_Day 1_

It's September again and after a long summer chasing balls across beaches, lazing in parks and staying up late every night and every morning, the teenagers of the world are back to school.

As usual, Xehanort is alone. Nobody quite trusts him, a transfer student two years past from Greece who mutters in his mother tongue and wears a sullen expression wherever he goes. He was in his homeland for the last blissful six weeks but now he is back in dreary northern weather. Habitually, he lets his eyebrows crease together. There's a commotion outside and he leans around to see its source: a boy is pushed in on a wheelchair. Interest piques.

He stands - sits - at the front of the class as the teacher introduces him. His name is Even Carlisle, he has a genetic condition that renders him unable to walk, his favourite subjects are maths and chemistry, and everybody is going to help him to fit in and feel welcome, _aren't they_?

And the teacher points out a spare place with no chair without realising that there was a reason for that, and the boy in the wheelchair propels himself through the maze of desks and students and neatly into the space with a dexterity that surprises Xehanort.

"Hey," He says quietly, in a voice that is nasal without quite being grating as he pulls a book from the bag resting on his lap. Xehanort is taken a little by surprise. People don't talk to him.

"Hi," He says.

* * *

_Day 2_

Even's already got his book out by the time Xehanort arrives at school, and he tucks himself in with a flick of his hand at the wheels so Xehanort can pass behind him. As he's picking his book back up, the slip of paper acting as a bookmark falls from the table.

"Want me to pick that up?"

Even leans awkwardly over the arms of his wheelchair anyway to grasp at it with bony fingers.

"I'm fine."

Xehanort scowls at the blonde boy, pegs his blunt refusal down to rudeness.

* * *

_Day 4_

There's an issue in chemistry. Xehanort's sitting at the back and they've dumped Even in at the front like he's blind or stupid. The lab benches are too high for his wheelchair to double up as a seat; but he pulls a stool close and awkwardly pulls himself up onto it. Somebody laughs as he fumbles getting comfortable, and he glares at them with baleful green eyes.

At the end of the lesson, Xehanort notices Even packing slowly even after most of the class has left.

"You coming?" He says gruffly. "We have next lesson together too."

Even glances up from his meticulous tidying of books in his satchel.

"I'll catch up."

Xehanort doesn't realise until he's stalked off that maybe Even was waiting for everybody else to leave before he returns to his wheelchair in case he falls.

* * *

_Day 8_

It's only natural that Even's exempt from participating in PE - sometimes. He still umpires matches with surprisingly extensive knowledge of the rules, sorts badminton rackets and carries shuttlecocks on his lap around the gym. He doesn't want to be left out.

At the end of one lesson, one of the boys, laughing, grabs his wheelchair and pushes him onto the court. Another hands him a racket. And to and fro he is sent shooting for the shuttlecock until both his partner and he are gasping for breath. But he laughs, and Xehanort hasn't seen him laugh before, as the kid - shockingly red haired with an easy-going demeanour - high fives him and jokes that they could make a sport out of it. Cripple Badminton.

* * *

_Day 11_

It's a lunch time, and everybody is bored in the common room when somebody decides it's good sport to steal Even's bag and throw it across the room. They try to play piggy in the middle with him for a few minutes first, but when they realise he's not going to humour them by playing along they lose interest and dump it in the opposite corner of the room. Even sighs, unlocking his wheelchair, but one of the girls who's barely even spoken to him before carries it over for him. Xehanort sees his expression. He's genuinely surprised.

* * *

_Day 15_

Xehanort's making his way home when he hears the gentle trundle of the familiar wheelchair behind him. He stops, turns, to see Even letting gravity pull him down the shallow slope.

"You're walking- I mean. You're going home on your own?"

"I like to do it sometimes to prove I can," Even clips, falling into rhythm with Xehanort's step.

"It must be hard," Xehanort says before he catches himself.

"I don't know," Even replies, "What's it like to walk?"

* * *

_Day 23_

Even's usually in the classroom before anybody else when it comes to chemistry, these days. It saves him the embarrassment of letting anyone see him scramble onto the lab stools. Xehanort accompanies him occasionally, a kind of escort, but it's not to help Even out. If the boy can possibly avoid it, he won't let anyone help him. Xehanort sort of gets it. He wants his independence. He doesn't want his disability to define him or limit what he can and can't do.

But it's only today that Xehanort notices Even swinging his legs under the table as he mulls over a particularly difficult calculation.

"I thought you couldn't use your legs," He whispers across the desk. Even glances down and laughs a little.

"You idiot, it's not like I'm paralysed. They just can't hold my weight. You should see them, they're like sticks."

* * *

_Day 37_

It's a Friday and Even looks a little alone as he tidies away his English books onto his lap at the back of the classroom. Xehanort skips over the tables to talk to him.

"Hey, Even."

"Xehanort."

Xehanort adjusts the slim glasses on his face a little.

"You wanna meet up this weekend?"

Even looks up, surprised.

"You want to hang around with me?"

"Think I care about my reputation? I'm not exactly the most popular guy in the school. Hell, you have more friends than me."

Even twists to look through the wide arching window for a moment.

"Well, I have Lea, I guess. In PE. You wouldn't _believe_ what he did last week when you weren't in. Football. Me, playing football. But apparently this was the most brilliant idea ever, because they put us in goal. But I was disqualified because apparently 'any body part' doesn't include wheels."

Even can be surprisingly talkative when somebody sets him going. Xehanort chuckles encouragingly.

"At least you got to join in."

"Yeah," Even says. "Better than the last school..."

"What happened there?" Xehanort asks, stupidly.

"Why do you think I transferred."

There's an awkward silence. Xehanort coughs a little.

"So about this weekend," He says both too quickly and too slowly.

"I'm free," Even replies. "Saturday?"

"Sure."

* * *

_Day 42_

Xehanort sees Even at the supermarket after school one day while he's grabbing a packet of sweets. Or rather, he doesn't. What he sees is a stack of food balanced precariously on a wheelchair with a pair of legs sticking out of the bottom. A skinny blonde girl is laughing at the legs as she relentlessly piles on more stuff.

Xehanort jogs over.

"Even?"

Even dislodges two loaves of bread and grins lopsidedly at Xehanort.

"Hello, you."

"Do you mind being used as a human shopping trolley?" Xehanort asks as the girl dumps a cabbage onto Even's lap.

"You get used to it after a while. L'Erena, this is Xehanort, you know, the guy from school. Norty, this is my little sister, L'Erena."

L'Erena giggles mischievously and reaches over to shake Xehanort's hand.

"Heard a lot about you?"

"Good?"

"Some of it. Come on, Even, if mum catches me using you to carry everything she'll have my neck."

Even laughs and waves goodbye to Xehanort as L'Erena trundles him away.

* * *

_Day 59_

Xehanort's hardly realised how close friends he and Even have become until suddenly it's Even's birthday and he's playing Cripple Volleyball in the gym at lunchtime with Lea and Isa, and the shy popular girl Nami's tied balloons to his wheelchair. It's hardly been two months but nobody bats an eyelid at Even's condition any more and he's become a permanent part of the year group, percolating almost every niche of friends. Even the football team have dubbed him their unofficial mascot.

Xehanort's spent quite some time wondering what to get Even for his birthday but after a hilarious chemistry lesson he's settled on the perfect present.

"Polymods?"

The little balls and connection sticks are packed tightly into a plastic box. It took a while to track down a set, and this one's only got hydrogen, oxygen and carbon - but it's polymods and Even is never going to complain.

"God, Norty, you're the best nerd friend ever."

"Haha, it was a tough choice between them and the magnetic fractions."

The two of them make their way down to Even's house after school, Even's lap covered with cards and presents that people have thoughtfully bought him. They don't go to Xehanort's house much; he lives at the top of a hill and as fun as it is for Even to go careening down, the return trip is nigh impossible.

"D'you ever miss your friends from your old school?" Xehanort asks in a lull in the conversation. Even slows a little, looking down.

"I... I didn't really have friends in my old school."

"Shit, really?"

"I was singled out a lot for being a cripple," Even says quietly. "It... it really sucked."

But then he picks up one of his presents, a little teddy bear from the girls, and smiles brightly.

"This place is so much better. I feel so much more normal. Like a huge weight's just been lifted off my shoulders."

Xehanort leans down to give him an awkward hug. He'll never really know what it's like for Even, who gets stared at in streets by passersby and always takes a finite time to be met beyond his disability.

"I couldn't care less if you had two heads or had to use a voice synthesiser," He says. "You're Even. And that's what's important."

* * *

Brought on by wheelchair slaloms at a disability awareness evening. Also, I want polymods, fffff.


	67. 133 Coffee

**133 - Coffee**

Sometimes his inability to function without coffee was debilitating. Sometimes he could not think could not move could not process could not breathe without the thickbitter taste of the beverage in his mouth and the caffeine rush in his bloodstream. Sometimes he could not work the night without a mug eversteaming at his side, sometimes he could not face the morning if warm ceramic was not pressed to his palm.

A stressful life, yes. The Superior had new projects and assignments and missions and reports every whichday and he struggled to keep up without midnight experiments and sleepless nights. The others didn't approve but when did they ever? They balanced missions with research; his life was spent solely in the lab and his results had to be flawlessly precise.

Sometimes at ohthreehundred hours he'd catch himself in the mirror, eyes heavyrimmed with bags and hair askew. Skin pale as milk, a stark insipid sickly tone, always from the hollow fluorescent strip lights. Not healthy. Not healthy, the coffee and the two minute showers and the powernaps and the vitamin tablets laid out for the next week in piles. Not healthy at all but he has work to do.

He brews another coffee, shots it with extra caffiene, sits to review his results. The table is pages, the repetitions endless. He calculates means that don't quite add up, recalculates, jabs buttons with jerkyfingers until neat columns of digits line the page. He types the same, jittery letters appearing onscreen and the report falls into place with all the scientificjargon he'll remove that later for the idiots topside to understand not that they ever bothertoread, too much effort and the coffee is gone and he brews another.

He's not stupid. He knows that regular breaks are crucial. That's why he makes coffee. Instant coffee takes precisely six minutes and forty seconds from start to finish, a clinical thoughtless procedure. When he has no time for even that he has a coffeeflask, four cupsworth in one and extra caffeine to pull him through the witching hours.

Witching hours, all his work needs reviewing. Somebody arrives and he doesn't even register who but they tell him to gothefucktobed and he says noicanttoomuchworktodo and he thinks they call him a Goddamnmoron but his attention is divided, focused on his work and he vaguely waves them away and once again his is alone.

Sometimes his craving for coffee is debilitating in that it renders him unable to _not_ function. Hours, he's lain, in a starkgrey bed with starkgrey sheets in a starkgrey room in starkgrey darkness, eyes openwide and mind clicking, endlessly clicking, over and over and over until he swings his leg into the room he occupies and works anyway through the seeping minutes he should sleep.

Pills, he takes them on his days off when he knows he has a twelvehourstraight no work, no hurry. He plans them with the obsessive precision it takes for all his assignments. He keeps up to date, finishes all deadlines and then when a day off comes he's dead to the world. Wakes groggy and delirious, filters a cracked mug of coffee sets to work again doesn't enjoy it doesn't enjoy anything any more much just the endless work to keep him occupied and the insanity at bay and if anybody asks the jilted diction's not the fear it's nothing unusual just the coffee needs the coffee coffee's a life force only thing keeping him awake at ohthreehundredhours and it's notanexcuse.

Sometimes if he isn't sleeping like comatose he slips out to a faraway world, Paris maybe, where the coffee is superb and the company is pleasant, and sips under the streetlights. He doesn't take pleasure in the luxurious, gourmet blend or the fluffy biscuit on the side of the saucer because he can't, but it's as close as he comes. The bittersweet, creamy rich texture slips effortlessly down his throat to pool at nothingness and it's a moment of true perfection, the closes to emotions he comes these days of morally corrupt experimentation and science for gain not for academic curiosity.

Other days when the timeless months are slow he takes a thermalmug with a lid to the library and opens up the dusty tomes, gloved fingers scanning handwritten lines for secret tales in aeons long lost to the darkness. But the children saved the worlds, slimmers of light, fractions combined to make not quite a whole. He sips at the coffee, leasurely, not for the caffeine rush to keep him alive but for the moisture to his lips, the comforting warmth at his palm as he turns with utmost care another crisp, sepia page.

Further hours he traverses the city, where the sky always weeps, ducks under empty canvas awnings, watches the water pool and run, abseil buildings and leap terrifying heights to land harmlessly in puddles. With mug in hand, he observes the darkness collecting in shadows, moving around the heartless world without ever quite interacting with its contents. He watches until his coffee is finished or cold, then returns to the labs for more preparationwork for his next assignment or to make another mug of coffee.

Sometimes he cannot live without coffee. Sometimes he cannot live properly with it. But take it or leave it it's there to stay. Coffee.


	68. 135 Education

**135 - Education**

Vexen's got that look on his face again. Oh sweet Jesus Christ, Vexen has that look on his face again, that look that he gets when he's explaining the beauty of Avodagro's ideal gas equation. Marluxia, swinging his legs under the desk at the back, gazes at Vexen's face and wishes like hell that Vexen would love him the way Vexen loves chemistry.

Vexen came straight out of university into teaching. He went to this school, a decade ago, and now he's back again in the prized chair at the front of the classroom, explaining to an awed class the beauty of empirical formulae, the magic of neutralisation, every detail of titrations that over the years his deft fingers have perfected. The flick of the burette's tap, the swirl of the beaker until that first definite tinge in the indicator. Vexen records results like a man born to wield a pen in his left hand, a test tube calculatively held to the light.

Marluxia's floated between jobs, became the home economics teacher here on a whim, floating as a petal any way the breeze of life took him. Vexen's destiny was in the lab with a long white coat and clear goggles that only accentuate his sharp eyes, flicking between the neat green lines of marked papers to assist a hapless new student with a Bunsen burner. Marluxia can hardly imagine Vexen without his signature unwavering focus, his steely commitment to his work and his passions.

The class is just finishing up the last of a set of concentration calculations. Marluxia's been bewildered from the start but Vexen's instructing the students with the ease of a man who's been calculating concentrations his entire life. But eventually they pack up and go, ask a few questions and steal the hole punch, and Marluxia stands from his place at the back of the class and sways over to Vexen's side.

"Riveting, as always."

Vexen rolls his eyes as he is wont to do.

"Sarcasm is not appreciated in this classroom," He clips tidily, although the effort is half-hearted, now. Vexen's chilly heart has thawed, just a little. He's found room in there somewhere, in amongst Galileo and Avagadro and Einstein and Curie and Tesla, for a comparatively stupid pinkette with a lopsided grin and a way with words and worming into people's lives.

"I wouldn't dare."

Vexen shakes his head as he slides his labcoat from his shoulders, hanging it with utmost care by the door. He loosens his tie next, one an attractive lilac shade that Marluxia himself plucked out for Vexen's icy complexion.

"Don't start with me, young man."

"Young man," Marluxia snorts, because Vexen's only, oh, eight years older. Physically. Mentally it seems like he's centuries ahead. "Does that make you an old man?"

Again, Vexen rolls his eyes. He has a few things to clear away but all that's to do tonight is marking, and he can curl up in front of the television and tick or correct until he falls asleep at midnight with the faintest quirk of a smile on his lips. Marluxia will carry him to bed. That's what Marluxia's there for. To cook or provide him three meals a day, every day, to make sure he sleeps and wakes at the right times and doesn't drop below the margin of health that's keeping him out of the hospital.

And to kiss his forehead when his breath evens enough for his consciousness to have slipped away, or brush his fingers across Vexen's shoulders at the breakfast table. Or waiting through his last lesson at the end of the day with a secret smile on his face that only Vexen could see.

It's not that Vexen would ever admit it, of course, but Marluxia knows he appreciates the simple company. The security in knowing there's just someone there for him when he needs the support, someone to stop him attempting to love off coffee or forget his body in lieu of his brilliant, insane scientific mind. And Marluxia would love for them to be something more, something beautiful, something tight and passionate, but Vexen isn't ready and Vexen might never be ready and Marluxia's surprised to find that he's okay with that. He's okay with only kissing Vexen when Vexen is asleep, only looping his arms around Vexen's shoulders when the man is too far gone into his world of academia to notice.

Vexen matters. Vexen matters so much. But Marluxia is learning, slowly, that to matter doesn't always mean to fall into love. And Marluxia wants nothing more than to hold Vexen close under the bedsheets and kiss his pale skin until dawn, but sleeping in the next room on the futon and scrabbling out of bed at the sound of the kettle to bake pancakes each morning is enough.

* * *

RP!Verse. Vexen and Marluxia make the best teacher bromance ever.


	69. 137 Fat

**137 - Fat**

You study yourself critically in the mirror.

"You're fat."

The words you say are practised, pronounced. It is not a suggestion: it is an observation. You turn yourself in your reflection and draw in your breath until your ribs show.

"You're so fat."

You breath out again, arms still raised to hold your school shirt above your chest. Even now there are slight bumps across your torso where the skin is tight against your bones, so pale as to almost be white. Your ribcage expands and contracts, hopelessly.

"You're so fucking fat!" You yell, momentarily glad that the house is empty. It'll be empty for a while. Nobody cares. Your parents have left their suicidal son alone for two weeks, do they honestly expect he'll still be alive when they return?

"You're so ugly."

You don't look at your face much. You hate it. Drawn, pale and haunted. You see fat cheeks, acne, crooked teeth that braces never fixed in your mind's eye, hair slick with grease. You wash it fervently, twice a day, but it's never the right consistency, always hangs limp around your face like it gave up trying to accentuate your looks years ago. Your nose is red, always, blemished from the weight of your hideous glasses, another mark of inferiority.

But you force yourself to look into your eyes. They don't even match you; if they were grey or brown you could disappear but they're not, they burn green like acid, radioactive acid. Awful.

"You're hideous," You tell yourself. "You're hideous and fat and obnoxious and awful and you don't even deserve to live."

A nervous tic, you create a ring around your wrist with your forefinger and thumb, rub at the lacerated skin until it aches dully.

"You're worthless," You say. You pull off your glasses and the world becomes a blur, squint at your fuzzed reflection. You prefer it that way. All you can see is your silhouette, thin arms hanging like threads from the clothes that dwarf you, a concave curve in from your hips to your ribcage. But you're still too fat, always too fat; you won't be thin enough until you can look in the mirror and see nothing at all.

"You deserve to die," You say, clenching the frame of your glasses tightly in your palm as the first splashes of blood drip to your fingers.

It's the ignorance that hurts you the most. It isn't a secret thing, the pain that hides behind your eyes. For years you've been crying out for help in any way you can but you've been no more than rebuked. If there was one person, just one person to look into your eyes and hold you tight and weep into your shoulder, you'd find the strength to struggle on.

Just one person.

You leave the mirror, the full length in your parents' bedroom, make your way to your own room. Your penknife is still there, the sharpest blade open and tinged with red. You pick it up, slowly, use it again and again until the sheets are red and tears mingle with blood.

You bite your lip as you dare to face your palm upwards and witness the destruction you created. Self-preservation flares and you want, fleetingly, to rush to the bathroom, bandage the deep lines, sleep until morning.

But you remember the reflection, the ghost of a boy alone in a world too harsh for a weak, pathetic, hopeless, helpless, ugly, lost, lonely soul.

You lie down. The last thing you see is, glancing over, the last poster you could never bring yourself to tear down. In your mind's eye, the imagination patching up the image through tears and poor eyesight, the chemist in a while lab coat could be an angel.

You close your eyes.

You're fat.

* * *

Blackbird!Even in the last moments before his suicide.


	70. 139 Far

**139 - Far**

He's been a long way from home and when familiar reality snaps back into place he stumbles instinctively until his stomach cracks against his cluttered desk. Safe and customary, the musky scent of scrolls and the steady hum of the computer, still churning away the hours in the corner.

Vexen straightens, breathing a deep sigh of relief. The Clan is far behind him, in another world, and here is his home and here nothing can hurt him. After a few minutes, he lets his hand open on the timepiece that connected his world with theirs. Again, the dials are moving erratically, flipping like compass needles with no polarisation. He sighs again, setting it down on the table. He's just become the first human to travel between dimensions and whatever he does next will be menial in comparison, but all he wants right now is a cup of tea.

A cough behind him stops his movement completely.

Slowly, heart plummeting, he turns. And there, hunched a little a few feet behind him in elegant nudity, is Marluxia. His eyes are wide, his lips parted slightly in awe.

"Where are we?"

Several choice curses flood into Vexen's mind. Marluxia must have made contact with him during alignment and travelled with him.

"Don't move," He says quickly, willing his brilliant mind to conjure a solution. But Marluxia is not listening; he has stepped over to the eastern drawing board and is ghosting his fingers along the markings of the annotated scroll spread across it. "Don't touch that!"

Marluxia drops his hand and glances over. His azure eyes are shining with the brightness of uneducated intelligence.

"So you truly are not of our world."

"Don't move a muscle."

Marluxia raises his hands with a slight chuckle, a gesture of amused coherence. Vexen grits his teeth, racking his mind for any idea of how to deal with Marluxia. Lock him in the study, perhaps. He can't afford to let the alien escape; if anyone sees him there'll be international panic. But Marluxia is watching him, calculatively, as though looking for something. Eventually his eyes rest on the timepiece.

"So that is your means of travel."

Vexen snatches the timepiece up and throws it into the top drawer of the desk.

"That's none of your business," He snaps. But Marluxia meets him with a steady gaze.

"On the contrary," He begins. Vexen interrupts.

"Shut up!"

Again are the grinning eyes. Vexen curses inwardly that Marluxia finds him nothing more than amusing. Maybe if fear were a factor he would have some leverage over the Clanchild, but Vexen has already witnessed Marluxia's strength, speed and articulate cunning and the man has nothing to fear. But Marluxia is being compliant - for now. Vexen despises the fact that he can't read or predict the man's thoughts or actions.

For several minutes they are silent, sizing each other up. Vexen thinks fast but not fast enough; he hasn't the time to hide or incapacitate Marluxia before the door bursts open in a flurry of feminine rage and everything stops completely.

Larxene sees Marluxia and drops her glass of iced tea. It shatters on the floor and the Clanchild jumps a little at the sound, but stands his ground. There is hesitation as Vexen struggles for an explanation, Larxene struggles for an exclamation and Marluxia watches them both in innocent surprise.

"Holy _shit_," Larxene eventually says. Vexen finds it within himself to chuckle sardonically.

"Proof enough for you now?"

"Holy shit, he has a tail," Larxene continues as though she hasn't heard her brother's sarcastic comment, a wobble penetrating her voice. "Holy shit he has four fucking ears and a tail where the fuck did you get that thing what the hell is he, Vexen you're a fucking psycho what the _fuck_."

Hearing mention, Marluxia's uppermost ears, the fluffy ones, twitch a little as though in recognition. But he keeps his distance, silently observing. Vexen feels his hand tighten around a paperweight on his desk but he doesn't know the good it'll do him; if Marluxia isn't taken by surprise little enough to dodge the glass sphere will more likely than not do nothing more than anger him.

"Don't do anything stupid," He hisses to Larxene. "He's a Clanchild."

"You went to _Clanland_?" Larxene hisses back.

"Miscalibration of instruments," Vexen huffs near silently. And through their conversation simply Marluxia watches them both. When Larxene runs out of swears, he smiles doggedly and chooses to speak.

"Are you going to introduce me to your friend or shall I do it myself?"

Both humans visibly flinch. Vexen's hand tightens around the paperweight as Marluxia steps from the drawing board, hand outstretched with his fingers facing upwards. Larxene is stock still as his palm connects with her stomach, slides smoothly up between her breasts to rest at her collarbone. She glances nervously at Vexen, silently asking what the hell she ought to be doing.

"That's my sister," Vexen growls dangerously, picking the paperweight from the table. He tests its weight, hoping that using it to bluff will be sufficient to keep Marluxia in check.

"Kin?" Marluxia questions, glancing between them. Then his second hand finds Larxene's shoulder, kneads gently at the skin beneath her shirt. "Of course. You are tense just like your brother."

Larxene laughs breathlessly as Marluxia presses his entire body to hers, kisses her lips then her jaw and her neck. He presses her against the wall, neither maliciously nor carelessly, and after a few moments pulls away with a soft half-lick against her cheek.

"Wow." Larxene eventually says as Marluxia's hands almost reluctantly leave her skin. Vexen blisters with anger; can't she see that Marluxia is a monster?

"My name is Marluxia," Marluxia murmurs in her ear, softly that Vexen only half catches his words. "I am of the Clan. Vexen was my guest, now it seems that I am his. It is a pleasure to meet you, Larxene."

"You told him about me?" Larxene asks Vexen in surprise. Vexen, paling, shakes his head.

"He knew my name, too."

"How?"

"If I told you," Marluxia says, "There would be no explanation."

He leaves Larxene flustered by the door and paces across the room, inspecting foreign objects closely. Vexen senses his distraction and scuttles to Larxene.

"Get out! Get out!"

There's a mad flurry as the siblings dive for the door and slam it closed behind them. Vexen's quick to lock it from the outside, breathing heavily.

"Jesus Christ. That was not supposed to happen."

Larxene stares for a long time at the door.

"You crazy shit," She says eventually. "You batshit insane idiot, you were right."

Vexen nods, swallowing thickly.

"Of course I was right."

"And it's all there? The marble city? The race of mad fuckbunnies?"

"I didn't even get to Guildland," Vexen huffs. "But_ yes_, the race of 'mad fuckbunnies'. I had to spend a night with them."

"But you were here three hours ago," Larxene says like he's stupid.

"Of course," Vexen scoffs at her, leaning against the door. "Time works differently there. That's why the dials of the timepiece move so erratically in this dimension."

There's a slight pause.

"Timepiece," Larxene says. Vexen stares at her in horror. "Where did you put the timepiece."

Vexen glances back at the door.

"Oh, _fuck_."

* * *

Of _Gilded Cage_. Unpublished as of yet.


	71. 141 Punishment

**141 - Punishment**

It's two thirty and Vexen is ninety eight percent certain that he has kid-proofed his house. The bathroom posters are safely scrolled away in their tubes. His (more extensive than he'd like to admit) pornographic collection is locked away in his attic. The leaflets by the telephone are similarly stored, his subscriptions to late-night television channels cancelled temporarily. The box under his bed he has put in another box, one with a combination lock, and is doubly hidden by junk and blankets. His magazines are in an obscure drawer, and this week's posts are due to arrive next door to be picked up in stealth. Even the vaguely abstract sculpture adorning his mantelpiece has been wrapped in newspaper and tucked in a secretive corner.

He's surprised himself. He didn't realise how used he'd become to the life of a single, ageing gay male in a house too sparse for one. But once he's reluctantly pulled down that gorgeous nude painting and sheathed it in cloth, his home feels empty and unfurnished. And once he's created a guest account, deleted his browsing history and found a suitable content lock for his computer just in case, he's pretty certain he has it all and Larxene is not going to kill him for corrupting their thirteen year old son.

It's three o'clock and Vexen waits nervously on the doorstep as a beautiful car he would kill to own draws up in the driveway and three figures slip out. The sylphlike figure of the woman who once was his wife is the first out, grabbing a hefty suitcase from the boot with a strength that belies her slight frame. Then the slim, stylish stepfather with a shock of red hair that still makes Vexen's gut curl in a paradoxically fiery and unpleasant way for he is both stunningly attractive and the new owner of the only woman Vexen has ever loved. Finally out appears his mirror image, a boy just experiencing the awkwardness of puberty that Vexen remembers from his own upbringing. The adults fuss over him and Larxene takes him to his father.

"Vexen," She says. Vexen nods curtly, glancing without fondness at the bespectacled, blazingly green eyed, flaxen blonde boy on her left.

Even has not been part of his life for seven years. Vexen isn't even sure that Even was old enough to understand when he realised he could not stay with his mother, but he imagines in the ferocity of that gaze that if he didn't then, he does now.

"Larxene. Even."

Larxene grins lopsidedly.

"Thanks for the favour, sweetie. We owe you big time."

Vexen hums in the back of his throat. He'd paid child support, of course, when Larxene needed every penny she could get her poor hands on, and looked after Even whenever she worked extra shifts to pay the bills. But then she met Axel, oh God Axel the city worker with gorgeous eyes and too much style for a straight man and the annoying ability to make Vexen's pants wet. But straight Axel indeed was, and more than that he was the One, and best of all he was rich. Larxene was remarried within months. Vexen doesn't pay the money any more. She doesn't need it.

Larxene has a few whispered words for Even, who rolls his eyes and scowls, but eventually his grip loosens on her hand and he slips forward to stand by Vexen.

"See you in two weeks!" Larxene chirps, kissing Even's forehead and then the cheek of his father. "I love you!"

Vexen's fingers find their way to the burning skin she leaves behind. He half smiles, because she used to kiss him just that way after her shift at Starbucks was done and he'd run out of money to buy more coffees and procrastinate bracing the bitter winter cold.

"I love you too."

Larxene laughs and skips down the drive. Axel catches her, kisses her until Vexen hears Even making vomit-noises next to him, and the two of them disappear into the car and away down the road.

"Right then," He says mostly to himself once they are far gone, turning to Even. "Come on in."

He picks up Even's suitcase and leads the boy indoors. He's still glancing around his own hall suspiciously in case there's a homoerotic novel on the dresser that he's missed, or one of those dirty notes left behind from a short lived affair or one night stand fallen to the floor.

"So how have you been?"

Even shrugs sullenly.

"Alright."

"Doing okay at school?"

"My lunch money was stolen today," Even says meaningfully. "_Again._"

Vexen leaves the suitcase at the foot of the stairs to be taken up later.

"I'll take you out to dinner."

"Kay."

"Do you want a drink?"

"Coke, please."

"Sure."

Vexen slips into the kitchen - he's already stocked up on unhealthy food and soft drinks for Even, although he'll be sticking to healthy tonic water and his usual low fat foods - and grabs a pair of glasses. He's just adding the ice cubes as there's a yell from the front room.

"_Ewww!_"

Shit.

He's missed something.

Vexen rushes out to find Even clutching a crumpled magazine full of naked men and laughing hysterically in between snorts of disgust and horror. Vexen is quick to snatch the offending papers away and return them to their rightful place - in the waste paper basket.

"Don't look at that! Honestly!"

Even has some kind of morbid fascination with homosexuality. He finds it an odd mixture between terrifying and hilarious, and seems to just have a nose for finding embarrassing things at Vexen's house that don't want to be seen.

"Do you seriously get turned on by that?"

Vexen scowls, dragging Even away from the bin and into the kitchen where he is forcefully placated by Coke.

"That's not something that you should be talking about at your age."

Even stifles a giggle.

"Aw, come on, you're more uptight than _Mum_. We talk about worse at school, promise."

Vexen discovered some months ago that he is quite a popular topic with Even and his little group of nerd friends at school. Nobody else has a gay Dad. He's like a novelty.

"That's no excuse." He huffs. "I know you think that now your mother isn't around you're going to get to do whatever you like, but don't for a moment think that's going to happen."

Even looks him seriously in the eye with an expression that says _who are you kidding because it certainly isn't me_.

"Are you still with Marluxia?"

Vexen lets out an agitated groan. Oh God, Marluxia. If there's anyone better looking than Axel it's Marluxia, who has, admittedly, met Even in passing. Unfortunately.

"I never was _with Marluxia_."

"That's a pity," Even says thoughtfully, with that look in his eye that only a thirteen year old boy with the intelligence of his father and the devious mind of his mother could possess. "He was nice. I liked him."

Vexen sighs and concentrates on his tonic water.

The next two weeks are going to be torture.


	72. 143 Wind

**143 - Wind**

The atmosphere in the jungle is restless. Amongst the usual suspects of chitterings and chatterings, rustlings and scrabbles, there is a sense of unease. Since the man-cub followed his heart and a beautiful song, things have just not quite been the same.

The great bear hums a little to himself as he wanders, using the claw to pick the prickly paw-paw as he passes a fruitful tree. And he sighs, letting his shoulders slump. He needs a good scratch, maybe a tasty banana or three. That's all. Just the bare necessities. But he also needs to stop thinking.

_Why, you wouldn't marry a panther, now would you?_

A wind picks up at the bank of the river as the bear slides in and lets the current take him away past floating water lilies and draping vines. The jet feline was always elusive, solidarity. But everybody wants company sometimes; the bear had the mancub he loved as his own son once, but how the mancub is gone to the man village to live the life of a man.

He'd laughed at the time, said he didn't know because a panther had never asked to marry him before. Now he just can't put himself to ease.

It seems so preposterous. A bear couldn't marry a panther. But then wolves don't raise mancubs, monkeys don't sing and dance and elephants don't march patrols through the stubborn terrain.

Just before the waterfall he splashes out of the warm river, dries himself off with a shake of his heavy fur. And he's sure he imagines the dark flash of silky fur, but then the panther slides like ink from a branch, nods in his direction. He grins lopsidedly, makes some idle comment about the panther's lonesome tendencies, and they fall into step together through jungle paths.

The wind whips patterns across the panther's fur as the sunset glows red through the trees; they move as fluid as water as the panther slinks easily, effortlessly, gracelessly even.

The bear always tells him to relax. Let life run its course. But it looks like right now the one who needs that advice the most is him.

* * *

That is an _actual line of dialogue_ in the film. No points for guessing which one.


	73. 145 Bang

**145 - Bang**

_Slick wet tongues in the dead of night, catching ears catching jawlines catching necks and breasts and nipples and strong arms and a curving figure and muscular definition and hips and the crook of a knee and the underside of a hardening bone... _

"Marluxia?"

"Huh? Mom?"

"Can I ask you a few questions, please?"

_Easy satiation, another virtual notch on the bedpost. Leaning back, catlike, to bask in the victory of another conquest, to kiss without haste and to touch without desperation in the wake of perfect, timely release._

"Sure, I guess so."

"Marluxia, I've... I've been hearing things about you from the parents of your school friends, and I'm a little bit concerned."

"Concerned? What about?"

_Burning, aching, glorious pain that hits deep just, just, just there and fluttering groans that resonate in the pit of the stomach and muscles clenching tight in the bedsheets, against the mattress, the wall, the cubicle door in an arching ecstasy._

"I want you to be honest with me when I ask you this, Marluxia."

"You're worrying me, Mom. What's the issue?"

"Are... are you sexually active?"

_Week in week out there are newcomers, with shameless urgency and dirty secrets, and week in week out there are regulars who return again and again to satisfy their cravings: none are sent away empty handed._

"Well. Yeah, occasionally."

"It's been brought up a few times, that's all. And I want you to know that you can be honest to me about these issues. Which brings me to another matter I want you to feel safe telling me: are you gay?"

"Gender doesn't matter to me, Mom."

_Hot hard mass in the mouth and the work of expert fingers with the flick of practised tongue goads into delirious climax and the rush of fluids and a sticky kiss with a laugh and blazing, lustful eyes to another stranger with another set of half-genetics swallowed in a single gulp._

"Now, Marluxia, I know that I can't exactly forbid you from having sex before marriage, but I feel that I have a duty to at least advocate sex only in stable, loving relationships."

"Yeah, Mom, I-"

"Listen to me, Marluxia. And it rather concerns me that you've never brought home or even mentioned a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend."

_The giddy beauty of each new thrust, the allure of rhythm and the thrill of unpredictability. The chase, the flirtation, the foreplay. The study partner, the designated driver, public toilets at three in the morning or somebody else's bed at a party that never ends._

"Mom, I'm seventeen. I'm old enough to look after myself."

"I just don't want to see you getting hurt, sweetheart."

"Don't worry. Seriously. I'm responsible enough to be sensible about it."

_Five neat square packets in the pocket of his jeans, always. The most that are usually necessary is three, but if one splits five means there's still an emergency supply if the girl at the ticket office is exceptionally gorgeous._

"You use contraception?"

"Always."

"And you don't- oh, Marluxia. I don't mean to pry. I just want you to be safe."

_Clinging to some primaeval urge, unified by the shared joy of intimacy and release and a strange sort of fleeting, passionate adoration. The rush of adrenaline when footsteps creak outside, the peal of laughter shadowing the creak creak creak of bedsprings._

"Mom, don't worry. The worst that could happen is that I might fall in love."

A laugh, a genuine smile.

For all her flaws Marluxia's mother accepts that he is not and never will be perfect.

_And taking time to explore milky white skin, taking note of every blemish and imperfection and adorning each with a kiss, and memorising the exact sound of each breathy gasp on new areas of flesh; warming the pricking bumps of raising hairs with better circulated hands in wide circles and firm curves of each digit. Of running lengthy hair through teeth, of lovingly caressing cheeks with a tongue, or knitting fingers and knotting toes, of small fetishes and discovering and utilising each one. Of gazing into widened eyes, a highly unusual shade of green, of nipping at shoulderblades as two bodies are pressed infinitely closer, of reaching collapsing point together and lying in loose arms and breath against a cheek or a chest or tucked in the crook of an elbow._

Maybe Marluxia will be bringing home a boyfriend sooner than she expects.

* * *

_C is for Cheerleader_, one of the new verses for the Morally Dubious Alphabet.


	74. 147 Cult

**147 - Cult**

Midnight. Clear night.

Slight south-westerly breeze through the foliage.

Dark night, last night. Stars in the sky pinpricks alight.

Cold night old night sneaking through the village at night, carrying charms and objects of power.

Cloud cover has receded into the distance, over the horizon.

Stars in the sky pinpricks aligned.

Last night dark night clear night midnight.

Clock strikes twelve, a patter of quickened footsteps in the shadows of buildings, the sky only guidance in the depths of the black. Long robes drag shadows from corners of buildings, into the open. Dark night. Silent night. Crawling with creatures and connoisseurs of the darkness, with the half-existence of being waiting for night. This night. Dark night.

Stones in the ground map the trace of the stars. Staff in the soil, pinprick alight.

A collection, a gathering, consummate riddling sorcery. Pinpricks alight.

An hour past midnight. Silent night. Half light.

No movement in the trees.


	75. 149 Pilgrims

**149 - Pilgrims**

Her knees are knocking, her hands shaking too much to complete the final curve of Marluxia's full lips. She gives up, closing her notepad and looking up to observe the crowds milling around at the airport. Were this a railway station, this would be easy; she could watch the correct train creeping up the arrivals board: but here she waits in painful agitation for the announcement over the intercom.

Her hair is black again; she prefers it that way. She likes the way it brings out the blue in her eyes, doesn't look too Goddamn awful when she crawls out of bed in the morning. Dungarees are back in fashion, _finally_, and she wears a pair over a loose shirt and under her signature bright jacket. They are stacked with pencils and covered in paint stains, but that's the way she is when she's not studying up late for her university thesis.

Finally after what seems like an eternity, the announcer says something that is almost but not quite intelligible, and she springs from the uncomfortable bench seat, making her way though the strangers. Her heart is beating a billion to the dozen as she ducks beneath arms and weaves around luggage, a scurrying little mouse even now. Her eyes are catching every bystander in vain hope, anxiety at almost unbearable levels.

It's been a long journey, five years and three thousand miles and heartbreak and true love and saving every penny for the plane from New York to London.

And finally this is where the pilgrimage ends, here at Gatwick watching the homebound and the holidaybound pour from the terminal. She grips the spine of her sketchbook tight to try to offset the quivering of her entire body, the strum of anticipation and fear. She's alone, down for the weekend from University because the summer holidays were just too expensive, and she didn't have anybody to take the journey with. And this is where it ends, when her eyes catch another young woman of small stature, with brunette hair that falls around her cheeks and equally white knuckles clasped around the handle of her suitcase.

She doesn't care what you look like, she thinks you're the most beautiful person she's ever seen.

Time stops.

She takes steps through treacle towards you, until you're just a few feet apart, an island that the sea of passengers roars against in tidal waves.

"Hey."

She's not sure who initiated the hug but she's so glad it's there, pulling you sufferingly close for all the years you spent thousands of miles apart.

"Oh God," She says, whispers through a tightened throat. "Oh God, hi."

Finally you step apart, and she shuffles awkwardly, staring at her feet.

"S-so this is it."

You laugh nervously.

"Yeah."

"It's so good to see you. Finally."

There's another tight embrace and she finds her fingers tangling in your hair, burying her nose in the crook of your neck. You're barely a few inches taller but she melts into you anyway, all of her weight pressed against your chest.

She's always been clingy like that. You were just too far away to know.

Your hand finds the base of her neck, brushes aside the artificially coloured locks. She's burning, probably from the same anxiety that accompanied you the entire flight here: an anxiety that has now all but melted away.

"I love you."

_"I love you too."_


	76. 151 Team

**151 - Team**

"You'd think," The tall, blonde man was saying as he stormed down the corridor, books in his black gloved hands and a scowl on his thin face, "That they'd give us a little more credit for what we do. College life is hard enough at the best of times, let alone trying to juggle it with saving the Goddamned city from dastardly villains."

His companion and potential sidekick, a queer-looking adolescent with wide, golden eyes and a shock of silver hair, nodded in obedient agreement as he scurried along behind his friend. The blonde saw his friend's struggle to keep up and sighed, slowing his frantic pace to a more leisurely stroll.

"I'm not asking for recognition," He continued once they'd passed a gaggle of girls in short skirts and too much make up (neither of them took much notice of the group, except what served as a slight turn of head on the blonde's part), "But at the very least respect. Do they think it's easy, or something?"

"I don't know," The dark, silver haired boy admitted uncertainly. The blonde scoffed, rolling his eyes.

"We've never had any problem with the villains before," He stated. His friend opened his mouth as though to disagree, but quickly decided against it. "So I don't see why the police getting involved is going to help in the slightest. At best they are cumbersome, at worst a fatal hindrance."

"They did seem kind of adamant," The dark boy persisted blithely.

"Well, I don't see why either of us should have to abide by their rules."

"Maybe they'll pay us?"

"Doubtful," The blonde clipped smoothly as they reached a sprawling complex and entered. An elevator ride later, they reached a long corridor occupied by identical and logically named doors. "I know that gratitude is enough payment for us, but a monetary contribution wouldn't go unappreciated." And a few moments' fumbling with the key later, they were inside a cramped and cluttered dorm room. "It's ridiculous, really. All this good we're doing for the community and I still get detentions for handing my school work in late."

The blonde pulled off his boots and left them by the door. The silver haired boy followed suit, wandering over to the radio and turning it up. Through the crackle of static came meaningless police announcements and transmissions. Most of it, they could deal with themselves; it was the supernatural that this pair was interested in.

"What's left in the fridge?"

As the blonde hung his coat on the rail, his companion obediently looked. Apart from a leftover box of pizza, a few cans of pop and some forlorn vegetables, the fridge was woefully empty.

"Not much."

There were two beds in the dorm, partially screened from the rest of the room. Neither were made, and one was covered in a mountain of electrical equipment. The blonde flopped onto the clearer of the beds, and sighed heavily.

"I'm shattered."

"I'll warm up the pizza, shall I?"

"Please."

Although they didn't much look it, the two young men registered as brothers. Even, the older and paler, was the biological son of their parents, a self-professed scientific genius whose extraordinary talents had, by and large, gone unnoticed for much of his life. This, he discretely hypothesised, as due to the habit his inventions had of almost - but not quite - working. Xehanort, his strangely coloured adopted sibling, had garnered a little more attention surrounding a few unfortunate incidents over the course of his childhood. But they had been explained away or forgotten now, leaving him free to trail after Even like a puppy whenever he pleased. They lived together on college campus in the city, where Even periodically routed the electricity supply of the entire building to fuel his insane scientific creations, and Xehanort lived a peaceful enough existence cleaning up after the resulting mess.

They ate at Even's soldering desk, which had been surprisingly clear as of late ever since the hoover-bot cleared all the whirligigs and thingamabobs up and point-blank refused to give them back. It had taken to sulking in the corner behind the lamp, and skittering down the back of the desk where Even couldn't reach whenever he tried to apprehend it.

"So did anything happen today while I was at college?"

Xehanort shook his head.

"Not really. Your components arrived, but-"

"But?"

"Well. The hoover-bot ate them."

"Goddamn it. I really need to get that dampener finished. I'm fed up with the council complaining about the property damage, but if there's another emergency..."

Xehanort nodded understandingly as he peeled away another slice of pizza. He could feel the hoover-bot watching him from its hiding place, waiting for some bit or bob to be left on the desk.

"Have you tried baiting it?"

"Yes. I lost three LEDs and a transistor."

They ate in silence for a few minutes. The radio buzzed on.

"Have they caught the Inferno yet?" Xehanort suddenly asked. "I haven't heard anything about him for a while."

"No," Even clipped. "My guess is that he's lying low in the hopes that the police will just forget about him. He'll be up to his usual mischief sooner or later."

Xehanort considered this for a few minutes.

"There are a lot of them, aren't there," He said eventually. "Supervillains, I mean. As soon as we've caught one, someone new comes along. But when it comes to heroes, there's just us. In the whole city."

"You get paid better if you're a villain. Think how rich they get."

"Think how caught they get," Xehanort said dully. "You'd have thought they'd have realised by now."

"They either overestimate their own abilities, or underestimate our tenacity," Even replied dryly. "Speaking of, did you try on that new suit I finished for you last night? The fire retardant one."

"It's a bit tight," Xehanort said reluctantly, throwing his pizza box in the bin. "I mean, it's kind of difficult to stretch in it. Other than that, it's nice, though."

Even nodded.

"I can fix that without too many issues. Not tonight, though. I have too much school work."

Xehanort nodded thoughtfully, and began to tidy away after their meal. Even logged onto his computer - modified so much that it now stretched out several feet on either wall from the corner - and began to work. The centre and smallest screen opened up a half written chemistry thesis; others showed specs and blueprints of ongoing projects. There was certainly no denying that Even, twenty years old, was special.

Xehanort was three years younger, a boy with insatiable curiosity but not much of an academic mind. Even could not remember much of the conditions of Xehanort's adoption; what he did remember was that there had been no paperwork, no agencies, and no decision making involved. He had just been there one day when previously he had not, as though he had simply landed on their doorstep in the night and politely asked to stay. Even's mother had always been enamoured by him, possibly even moreso than by Even himself; Even's father had little if anything to say about the strange new addition to the family. Even's first response had, understandably, been one of jealousy - but that was before he discovered that Xehanort could fly.

Of course there had been clues, if he'd been looking: Xehanort had a remarkable propensity to be found in near-unclimbable trees or on top of towering cupboards; but it wasn't until Even came home one day, aged nine, to find Xehanort whooping about on the ceiling that he realised there was something truthfully and exactly weird about his brother. Being the resident evil genius (read: dork) and therefore living a grim and solitary life in the face of science (read: totally and miserably friendless) if it was news there was nobody to tell, and it didn't seem right to confide in his parents probably because, like anything, they would blame what was surely a freak accident on him. By the time it occurred to Even s frazzled mind that perhaps it wasn't normal to have a sibling who could pick him up with one hand and no effort, it was a secret and most importantly _their _secret: so nobody knew.

Quite considerable was the notion that it had made Even in small ways feel special, an inclusive elite that was Xehanort s little secret. A social outcast, his best friend was almost by definition his brother and school, while not in lessons that would be enthralling if Even wasn't such an insufferable know-it-all, had been a fest of teasing and being thrown in bins and shoved in lockers and hiding out in the library stealthily munching the remains of a half-stolen packed lunch. Even, who had learned to be good at pretending, nobly maintained that it was a sacrifice he himself had made for his profession of child prodigy. Nobody really ever believed a word of it, not even Xehanort who was irritatingly perceptive enough to see that Even didn't have any friends quite simply because Even was a nerd. It bothered him, and Xehanort even at his young age could tell that, so perhaps it was only natural that they would become brothers if not in blood then firmly in heart.

There were other things about Xehanort (affectionately or otherwise referred to by his brother as Norty). His unfeasably impressive strength, his double heart that Even had improvised a home made x-ray machine just to see. His pure and unwavering loyalty to his older brother, who, never socially adept, had become something of a bitter adult from a lifetime of passive, well-meaning negligence.

Neither of them got much sleep until very late that night; there was a lot to be done, even before the police announced a code red alert and they rushed to get to the scene of the crime to apprehend the criminal. Once he was duly arrested, Xehanort - sleepy after a long day - went home to bed. Even stayed behind to clear up the debris and apologise to the residents of the apartments that had been ruined in a six-storey chase. It wasn't until three o'clock in the morning that he finally collapsed in through the window and pulled his hoverboard in after him. Norty, having woken from the commotion, soon had a warm mug of hot chocolate pressed into Even's hands.

"You should have let the police handle that," He said disapprovingly; being of the opinion that Even did too much work was possibly the only way in which Norty ever spoke out against his older brother's actions - not that it did any good: Even always ignored him. "You look exhausted."

Even waved his hand flippantly, falling gracelessly onto his bed. The junk that lay on it fell on him as though in protest. Irritably, he batted the components and half-built contraptions away.

"I'll survive."

Xehanort didn't seem convinced, but he meekly nodded anyway, climbing into his own bed. Even looked like he was about to pass out on the spot, and he had an early lecture the next morning.

"Why don't you let me handle the clear up next time?" He offered has Even threw enough things off his bed to make room for himself, and curled up inside the resulting cocoon.

"You're doing enough."

"Well..." Norty didn't want to say that it felt like Even was doing everything sometimes, from providing him with outfits and gadgets, and additions to his own body to help him fight crime, to being on hand at every fight backing him up, to negotiating with the police and the locals. And that wasn't even taking his school work into consideration.

It had been Even's idea, back when they were just preparing to move out into the big city for college. The city's previous superhero, a gravity-defying man named the Freeshooter, was desperately wanting to retire and it seemed only natural that they would become replacements. Xehanort, with his impossible strength and terrifying speed, came as quite a shock to the resident supervillains, who had become accustomed to all the tricks that the Freeshooter had hidden up his sleeves. Xigbar, for that was the Freeshooter's name, now lived a simple enough life in the outskirts of the city, visited weekly by Even and Xehanort.

And it was Even who had employed Xigbar's knowledge to obtain flexible, bullet proof suits (they were never, ever referred to as costumes) for them both, Even who had invented all manner of gadgets and gizmos to compensate for his own lack of supernatural powers, Even who dealt with the police and the neighbours and the bad press, Even with the plans and the strategies - sometimes Xehanort felt like all he was doing was posing for the journalists while Even scurried unendingly around in the background, the unsung hero, clearing up after all the mess.

Norty, done mulling this over, opened his mouth to speak - but apparently, Even had fallen into a deep slumber. Sighing a little to himself, Norty stripped his sleeping brother down to his boxers and hung his suit in the closet, then moved most of the electronic components off the bed and tucked Even in. The blonde huffed a little, wriggling into a comfortable dip in the mattress, and began to snore. Norty sighed, stretching as he pulled off his own shirt and reached for his pyjamas. He didn't make it - the sullen crackle of the police radio turned into a scream.

In an instant Even was aroused from sleep, but Xehanort had even faster reflexes; he shoved Even back into the bed so suddenly that he squeaked with surprised.

"You've done enough. I can handle this."

"But-!"

But Xehanort glared with all his might at Even until the older man growled in the back of his throat and stopped thrashing. Xehanort pulled his suit - a thick synthetic fibre of a very deep navy, accentuated with blue lines so pale they may well have been silver - from the closet and pulled it over his body, zipping it up to his neck. It cut off at the wrists and ankles, but he pulled heavy duty boots and specially padded gloves on to cover his bare skin. He had done this so many times it took barely a minute to find his utility belt and clip it firmly around his waist, so it rested, reassuringly heavy, on his hips. Finally, he pulled his wild hair into a pony tail at the back of his head, and pulled on his visor.

"I'll call for back up if I'm desperate," He said, throwing open the window. "You need to sleep." And he leapt out into the night sky, soaring out towards the scene of the crime.

* * *

Although Xehanort didn't understand why, Even was in a sour mood the next morning. He hadn't overslept, or spilt his coffee on anything important, or even failed to complete an important analysis or write up for college. It worried Norty, because while Even was usually irritable and short-tempered about _something_, it seemed now that he was angry in particular about Xehanort himself. This was not only unusual; it was also worrying.

"Did I do something wrong?"

It was evening again, somehow (the day had passed in a blur), and Even had trudged home through the rain with a saturnine expression which hadn't lifted even once he was warmed, showered and dried. He had moved from the door to his computer, and was now tapping furiously.

"No." Even said shortly, and didn't care to elaborate. Norty, who still didn't understand people even having grown up around them, sighed a little, slumping on his bed.

"What's wrong, then?"

"Nothing."

Xehanort rolled over onto his stomach, pressing his face into his pillow and asphyxiating his lungs until they begged for air. Eventually, he caved - it took about five minutes - lifting his head and taking a deep gulp of refreshing air. Even, who was used to this kind of behaviour, barely even inclined his head. His focus lay exclusively on his screens before him, spinning with graphs, numbers and diagrams that Xehanort would never understand. They stayed in silence for a few minutes more before the tense atmosphere was broken by a knock at their door. Sighing irritably, Even completed one last sentence and stood, practically wresting the door from its hinges.

"What do you want?"

Xehanort climbed gracelessly from his bed to see who had dropped by; it was the mousy boy from the room a few doors next to them whose name began with an L (Xehanort couldn't remember anything other than that). He tried to lean around Even to peer into the cluttered room, but Even barred his way with his body.

"I've run out of milk," The boy, a figure of average height, weight and face, said flatly. People didn't usually visit Even and Norty, so it was with no small amount of curiosity that he peeked around Even to watch the conversation take place.  
"Norty, check the fridge," Even said without taking his eyes away from the young man. This was more than anything Even had said to Xehanort today, so he scurried to comply. There was almost a full pint of milk in the door, which he grabbed and took back to Even.

"Here."

Even was still glaring intently at the milk-boy, who was staring back with equal ferocity.

"Uh...?"

"Just give the milk to Lumaira."

Norty nervously thrust the carton at Lumaira's - that was his name - chest. He took it, nodding a little at Xehanort and ignoring Even completely.

"Thanks."

Even slammed the door in his face and stomped back to the computer. He was returning to his work when Xehanort pointedly reached over and unplugged the console at the wall. He knew it was safe to do this - all of Even's work was set to save automatically every twenty seconds. But Even still scowled up at him with a look of pure loathing.

"What."

"Why were you so rude to Lumaira?" Xehanort asked, sighing as he leant against the wall. Even grabbed for the power lead, but Norty just pulled it out of reach. "All he wanted was milk."

"He's a jerk," Even replied. "And anyway, he was trying to look at the computer!"

Xehanort sighed, dropping the cord and wandering over to the radio, listening out for police announcements over the static. But there was nothing more than the usual petty theft and harassment, so he flicked it off again and flopped back onto the bed.

"You're paranoid."

"Look, I just don't trust him, okay,"

"You don't trust anybody," Xehanort mumbled petulantly before he caught himself; Even in response simply scowled, grumbling under his breath as he tried to coax the hoover-bot out of its corner so he could finish his all-important dampener. Xehanort couldn't help but feel a little bad for blurting out his inner thoughts so inconsiderately - but it was true: Even, unlike Xehanort, was reluctant to place his trust in anybody but his closest friends (read: Norty).

"Are you coming to bed soon?"

"Stupid hoover-bot. I need those components, damn it."

"Have you tried overriding its electronic circuits with a magnetic field?" Xehanort asked, voice muffled through his pillow. Even considered this for a moment: it _would_ ruin the hoover bot, but on the other hand he did really need those components. Eventually he sighed audibly and rummaged around in his drawer for the necessary device. It wasn't so much a loss, after all; the hoover-bot was annoying and it wasn't like Even didn't have its blueprints backed up across three different continents. Minutes later the hoover-bot was in pieces and Even was busy soldering circuit boards and machinery together. He didn't finish for an hour, when he disappeared into the night to test his latest contraption out in the old abandoned warehouses downtown. Xehanort, left alone, flicked the light off and rolled over to sleep.

He didn't know how long he was asleep for: what he did know was that when the radio buzzed to life with a red alert Even was still out and paranormal activity was blooming all over the financial district. Xehanort knew the signs: someone with super powers was robbing banks. And that meant that there was no time to track down Even; Xehanort would have to handle this alone. If Even returned he'd get the message and back him up, surely.

Xehanort grabbed his suit, pulling the zipper right up to his neck, and took a brief moment to study the silver cross emblazoned on his chest in the reflection of the window before flying out.

Xero.

It had been Even's idea, originally - because they both knew that if they didn't come up with their own pseudonyms then they'd end up with something unoriginal and frankly ridiculous concocted by journalists. And Xero was fitting because - perhaps most startlingly of all - Xehanort possessed the incredible ability to manipulate the very physics of space around himself.

Taking shortcuts through the city, Xehanort reached the towering skyscrapers of the financial district in minutes. He'd not heard all of the information owing to crackling static on the radio, so he'd wondered if he'd have difficulties finding the scene of the crime. He needn't have worried; when the officers had said "blooming" they meant it literally. Towering buildings, fifty stories high, had been transformed into jungles. Stalks as thick as Xehanort's waist cracked pavements far below, green tendrils cracked windows and curled almost lovingly around steel bars and hanging flags. There was no denying that it was spectacular - and terrifying.

Xehanort was about to dive down to speak to the officers when something tapped him on the back. Startled, because this was unusual when he was in midair and a significant number of feet away from the nearest building, Xehanort forgot basic defence and simply span around.

Behind him hung a vast network of vines threaded tightly as though a massive, grotesque spider's web; the spider in the centre was a masked man, expertly poised against his creation, grinning.

Xehanort gaped.

"I thought this might catch your eye." The man said pleasantly, and just like that he was gone, soaring down to the ground and lost in the maze of plant life teeming in a world of stone and metal.

* * *

The beginning of a much longer story. I'm going to finish it some time.


	77. 153 Shampoo

**153 - Shampoo**

For beings who are as empty as the world that chokes them, there is a certain unfamiliar comfort, Vexen has found, in silent, thoughtful company. And for a man who has long since frozen, the humid heat of a steamy bathroom holds a certain unexpected repose from the daily life of an overworked, overstressed heartless scientist.

It is the week's close, and by appointment of habit the blonde man finds himself worked loose by the strong, warm fingertips of another, the steam evaporating the sharpness of his senses and the deceptively human creature kneading his naked back. He wouldn't admit it to his colleagues and least of all himself, but it's the closest he comes to emotion when Marluxia sits him down on the stool and carefully works the tangles in his hair out with a decorative comb, body snug against him, soft meaningless words filling the air around him. It's not enjoyable - because not even the clinical perfection of scientific research is enjoyable any more - but it's pleasant, and an afternoon wasted on pleasantries is in this life of hollow meaningless an afternoon well spent.

Today, Marluxia works quietly; it's as though he understands that Vexen has a lot on his mind: the silence is easy, casual. The first thing he always does is strip Vexen's shirt from his back, massaging heavy scented oils into his sallow skin. Even the academic cannot deny that he is no longer young, and Marluxia's meticulous care helps to ease the aches and pains of his increasingly creaky body. And, not that Vexen would admit this, either, there are small satisfactions to be found in the knowledge that even an emaciated, sun starved, middle aged man can be appreciated by a man no small handful of years his junior.

"So," Marluxia eventually says, pulling a tie from his own hair to loosely hold Vexen's locks out of the way so he can focus on a pesky knot at the base of Vexen's head. He uses the comb to so gently tug it loose, then runs a damp brush through it so that Vexen's hair lies flat against his neck. "This needs a wash, I see."

Starved of time, Vexen usually simply runs shower gel through his hair when he showers - Marluxia is more particular, forcing Vexen to remove his remaining garments and kneel on a folded towel in the bathtub where he rubs shampoo and conditioner into his scalp, paying ardent attention to each and every strand of hair from root to tip. Then he uses the shower head to wash out the bubbles, soapy water running down into the plughole.

"I think it needs cutting, too," Vexen says as Marluxia threads his fingers one last time through the wet blonde locks. He uses this comment sparsely, not because Marluxia is lacking in skills with scissors (the exact opposite, in fact), but because usually when Marluxia cuts his hair they somehow end up in quite another room of the assassin's quarters, distracted beyond measure. It's not that those kinds of encounters can't be fulfilling, but Vexen doesn't quite work in the ways he used to; now more often than not of an evening he just wants to just sit on his decrepit sofa and solve crosswords. As far as he is aware, the acts of sodomy and crossword solving are mutually exclusive. But reduced though his libido may be, that doesn't mean he doesn't sometimes get the urge for intimacy - and he has come, over time, to realise that proclaiming the need for a haircut to Marluxia is essentially the same as saying "I want you to have sex with me."

Marluxia hums a little in the back of his throat in affirmation, fondling the roots of Vexen's hair one more time before pulling away to collect the equipment that he'll need for the cutting. And he is a proliferate hairdresser - Vexen can rely on him to slice the hairs sharp and businesslike the way he likes. Marluxia returns with his bag a few minutes later, shifting Vexen bodily around to the correct position and begins again to thread his fingers through Vexen's hair. His breath has already become thick and heavy, Vexen notes - and it has little to do with the fact that they are naked. He leans back a little, into Marluxia's open palms, and the assassin exhales his tension against Vexen's ear, warm and soft and so convincingly real in the nakedness of half existence.

Most of the time Vexen doesn't know why he humours Marluxia's harmless fetishes, the kiss and clip of each lock of hair falling in fans to the base of the tub. Indeed, their first tryst stemmed from one of these such sessions, when Marluxia first tangled his fists in Vexen's hair and locked their lips together, full of loose strands and tangles and uncontrollable passion. But when he's on his knees, hands pooled around his thighs, in the warm company of another man, he understands completely. Inexplicably, Marluxia's obsessive attention to every strand of his hair completes him. Vexen is worth something when he is in Marluxia's arms. He is inexpendable, special - it is almost as if he could feel.

He knows the haircut is perfected when Marluxia presses his fingers against Vexen's skull, tugging needily at his roots. Vexen cranes his neck backwards and Marluxia is above him and against him and invading his mouth, their tongues eagerly playing amongst stray strands of mingling hair.  
It's not that he hasn't courted women before; but then he always felt as though he was just doing them a service, a mere robot with the necessary organs and movement for their pleasure. There was no intimacy, no passion. Marluxia falls apart beneath his fingertips, desperate, hopelessly addicted. Vexen can shy away and Marluxia will follow, needy and wanting, slave to Vexen's whims.

Marluxia forcefully twists Vexen's head then his body around to mould against him, a heavy mass scouring his body, burning palms and burning lips. Marluxia, pushing him down as though to trap him, a rare butterfly, a unique specimen to be admired, adored. Uncushioned, Vexen s head cracks unpleasantly against the ceramic bath.

"Not here," He hisses, pushing Marluxia's hungry hands away. Marluxia, at first, doesn't seem to hear him, tugging needily at the thick strands of his hair, nothing but faint whines slipping from his lips. Vexen, grunts, forcing him off, the sting of arousal fading in lieu of discomfort and need for practicality. Eventually if reluctantly, Marluxia yields, pausing to scoop Vexen into his strong arms and carrying him out of the bathroom to drop and fall upon him between the luxurious sheets of his bed. Vexen feels each droplet of water, rapidly cooling away from the heady steam of the bathroom, seep into the textiles, leaving ghosts of recollections where his arms and body lay. Marluxia gasps when their skin bumps together, shamelessly aroused, scrabbling to leave his mark forever on Vexen's perfect, flushed skin. The younger Nobody breathes deeply by Vexen's ear as his fingers dig into sharp hipbones, tongue tracing the line where flesh fades into hair. There is nothing clinical about their procedure, starved and frenzied, writhing in the bedsheets slave to the aching need for more almost-emotions. Not because they are mere recollections, like the memory of anger or sadness or pride - Vexen has come to conclude that there's something more than that to the bonds between him and Marluxia. Sex is _physical_, the ecstacy he feels condition to the goosebumps on his skin, the hot and cold flush coursing through his body. Adrenaline, testosterone - the emotions of sex have nothing to do with the heart. It is their way of cheating the void, so to speak. When Vexen lets his legs be spread, crushed so beautifully against Marluxia, it's for a few precious moments as though he can feel the inexplicable, uncontrollable, enthralling flash of love.

When Marluxia is above him, around him, inside him, Vexen does not need to think. His body alone knows what to do. He cannot stop himself from moaning into Marluxia's hot, uneven breaths; every new thrust makes him gasp as his limits are pushed ever further.

Tomorrow he will wake to Marluxia's limp form imprinted on his, he will leave swiftly and soundlessly to return to work in the laboratory. Tomorrow he will return to the listlessness of petty half-existence. But tomorrow is tomorrow and now is a climax of screams and fists in hair and unrestrained expressions and no place for control. Once he has caught his breath, Vexen smiles softly and shifts luxuriously into some comfortable position, burying his nose into Marluxia's silky, slightly floral scented hair.


	78. 155 Numbered

**155 - Numbered**

It's no secret that Vexen's been avoiding his new leader ever since the six Nobodies moved into Castle Oblivion. There's a reason why he's been skulking around in the basements, always scarce whenever there's a meeting, always mysteriously offworld when the castle's administrator comes to inspect. And it was also no secret - to him as much as the others - that he could not run forever.  
And it's Friday when Marluxia turns up in Laboratory Five where Vexen happens to be working on a report he was intending to send a Dusk to drop off.  
"Ah. Four. Just who I was looking for."  
"Cut the crap," Vexen manages to grit through his teeth. "I know why you're here."  
Marluxia laughs lightly. The room is still dusty from disuse, and he leaves shining marks as he runs one gloved finger across one of the desks. "Then I trust that this will be a painless procedure."  
He's barely a foot from Vexen now, on his full pink lips something just a little too heartless to be a smile.  
"Of course."  
He reaches up with an immaculate palm to brush against Vexen's bland, flaxen hair in a manner that's almost affectionate; but at the last moment his fingers jerk sharply to twist around a lock, knocking Vexen's head.  
"Down."  
Vexen knows why he's here. He's known that this moment was inevitable from the moment that he picked up his C.O. mission papers and saw the rank XI beside the role of Leader. And he knows that every second of agony and humiliation that he is bound to experience has been painstakingly earned over weeks and months in the World that Never Was. He drops obediently to his knees.  
"Good boy."  
Because Vexen didn't think for a second what the consequences of exercising mindless abuse of his superiority over Marluxia could be - because in truth, Marluxia was just waiting for the opportunity to break even.  
Marluxia unzips his heavy cloak until Vexen can fumble with the tag, merely stand complacently by as folds of leather are brushed aside, the crisp cotton of a clean shirt untucked and a heavy belt unclasped.  
"I hope you're as good with your tongue as I am," He murmurs idly as Vexen viciously tugs his waistband down the curve of his thighs. Vexen glances up, scowling; the younger Nobody is idly inspecting the stark black folds of his glove.  
"Shut up."  
His demand is met by a laugh, and hands quite suddenly fisting tightly in his hair until strands snap from his scalp. He suppresses a whine, jerking away instinctively when Marluxia takes a step towards him. The back of his head cracks unpleasantly against the desk, and he is trapped between the cold truth of his perfect science and Marluxia's shameless erection.  
"Suck it."  
Vexen stalls for a few seconds, closing his eyes and breathing as deeply as he dares, focusing on the simple act of inspiration and expiration. But Marluxia wordlessly slams his head against the desk again, so tentatively, fearfully, he reaches up until nothing lies between his fingertips and Marluxia but one layer of leather.  
"You always knew this was coming to you," Marluxia says, a new hardness in his voice, pressing Vexen's mouth against his skin.  
And it's a few humiliating moments before Vexen realises that the strange tingles in his legs and spidering against his back are the paths of snaking vines, and that leather is no protection against bitter, vindictive thorns, and that the usually calmingly cool air of the laboratory only worsens the prickling wounds as each needle-sharp point gouges into his skin. But as he drops his hands to pull the plants away Marluxia thrusts sharply forwards and he gags, hands spasming convulsively. The vines, a life of their own, find ways beneath his clothes to scratch at his skin, and he whines in the back of his thought, fighting down the urge to vomit and the equal compulsion to freeze Marluxia's exposed body into a grotesque, humanoid icicle.  
"You're useless at this," Marluxia states, condescendingly, tugging on Vexen's hair again. Vexen just twitches against the thorns embedded in his muscles, and finds folds of his cloak to grasp, vainly seeking distraction. "I should have known."  
But it's taking every ounce of Vexen's diminishing self control not to clamp his jaws shut, so he concentrates on remaining Marluxia's inanimate sex toy, counting the seconds until the vines with relinquish their hold and Marluxia will leave him to bleed alone.  
And knowing that mere months ago he had been in this same situation, the roles reversed, makes Marluxia's revenge even harder to swallow.  
"Make an effort, old man."  
Trying to suppress the shake that has come to his limbs, Vexen dutifully begins to move his tongue around the mass invading his mouth, both dreading and wishing for nothing more than the release of bitter fluids into the back of his throat.  
"Thought you could behind your ranks forever, did you?"  
Vexen tries to shake his head, but between the sharp angles of the desk and Marluxia's hips movement is impossible. And the neophyte leans over, hands dragging Vexen's hair to the desk, as though simply to crush him further.  
"Thought you'd always be able to go running to your beloved superior?"  
Vexen coughs, gags, closes his eyes tightly and tries to imagine a world where he never thought to take advantage of his elevated status within the Organisation and Marluxia's attractive body and feminine face.  
And his own blood seems to sting against the lacerations across his body, and Marluxia's nails tight against the roots of his hair, and choking against him and burning shame, and Vexen just wants out.  
"Predictable, really."  
And Marluxia jerks against him one last time, and his mouth fills with something ugly and alien, and then he is gone. Vexen, spine feeling as though it has shattered into dust, slumps forwards, semen dribbling from his lips and splashing onto the floor.  
"Don't think I've forgotten any of your depraved fetishes, Vexen," Marluxia says as he zips his coat back up, the sound echoing in the empty room. "And don't think that I'll hesitate to repay you for every one."  
"I never hurt you," Vexen manages, begging his hands to just this once reach up and throttle the plants that bind him. Marluxia crouches down, with gloved fingers tips his chin up until their eyes are forced to meet.  
"I don't care." He says simply.  
"I never meant to-" Vexen tries, but his head is dropped suddenly, the briefest second of respite before a harsh slap connects with his cheek.  
"Meant to what, exactly?" Marluxia asks. "You thought you were so special, Vexen. Let me tell you something."  
Vexen keeps his eyes on the floor, immaculate bar mingling droplets of semen and blood.  
"You are worth nothing to me. You are inferior. You are dispensable."  
Vexen can hear Marluxia's heels click as he walks to the door.  
"_Number Four_."


	79. 157 Witchcraft

**157 - Witchcraft**

By the time she reached him, she had already been broken, bruised and bleeding from topside abuse, pretty little white dress askew and underwear stained. He, working in full unreadable uniform, had tutted primly, muttering something about neophytes and lack of respect that sounded like less of a valid topical complaint and more a well-rehearsed speech. And as obedience directed, she waited until his experiments were finished or no longer in need of sentient observation and followed him, a docile possession, to his quarters. Neither of them spoke until he had led her into the bathroom.

"Well, I'm not touching you like that."

He arduously turned the shower on, a feat of some dexterity in coercing the stiff handles to turn and avoiding the uneven spray of water. Once he with skeletal fingers had deemed the water a suitable temperature, he stepped back expectantly and ushered her towards the old, splintered bath tub. She climbed with some uncertain compliance out of her soiled clothes and into the water, which was not warm but hot and cold in turns. It stung on her cracked skin, raised goosebumps on her legs where the hair had been shaved away. He handed her a sponge, a bottle of shower gel and another of shampoo, and watched her from the stool with an air of detachment about him, a scientist observing just another experiment. She washed methodically for him: one leg then the other, one arm then the other, the torso, the back, the armpits, the genitalia. She carefully rinsed every last bubble away, even when the water ran from temperamental to permanently and perishingly cold. He held up something that had once been a towel for her, which she used to dignify her body, still dripping water and the last remnants of crimson blood on the faux-tiled floor.

The bedroom was not carpeted; the walls were as blankly white as any other room in the Castle and the floor had no more insulation than similarly shaded vinyl. With no windows, the furniture at once cluttered the room and made it sparse: a writing desk in this corner, a wardrobe alongside the bookshelf on that wall, the bed with ancient quilting by the sofa on the opposite side of the room. She, on his order, made her way with a second towel for her hair over to sit on the lumpy armchair by the bookshelf.

"I shall be with you in a minute."

An artist by nature, she observed her surroundings while she waited. The cracks in the walls, the old leather-bound tomes on the lowermost shelves of the bookcase. The fraying blanket thrown over the sofa, the washed and folded but unsorted pile of clothes on the desk beside half-written papers. The lamp in one corner, flickering a little. Filament bulbs. Old swatches of fabric, none quite matching, on the quilt, which had an air of lived-in-ness about it. It was so unlike anything in her limited realm of experience, of perfect stark halls and immaculate interior design. It was strange. Human.

He returned from the bathroom a few minutes later, long hair tied back into a ponytail and dressed down in a loose white shirt and black trousers tied at the waist with a leather belt. He seemed younger, somehow, in this crisp and supposedly casual dress, his hair pulled away from his face. Perhaps it was the hesitance with which he barked an order for her to make her way, properly cleaned and sanitised, to the bed, or the slight falter in his step as he moved away from the doorframe and into the open.

She knew how it worked; she would surrender to physical pain and extract her mind through fanciful escapism to an imaginary world created by fitful dreams and magic crayons. Maybe she would be frozen as she had been burned, electrocuted and lacerated before, or otherwise some other strange, depraved torture. They could, after all, feel neither shame nor guilt for their abuse of what was little more than a girl. It was, as a witch, but another condition to her life.

Once he had carefully folded the quilt and bedsheets away, he beckoned her onto the bed with an almost distracted twitch of his hand, watching her as she fumbled to find hold on the creaking old springs and thick, heavy stuffing. He then meticulously followed, hands aside her slim body and knees together between hers. For a moment, their faces were close, every inch of pallid skin and those two blazing, baleful green eyes in perfect clarity: then he leaned in and kissed her lips, clumsily, movements jerky and saliva cold against her mouth. He reached up to wrap his thin fingers against her skull like pinpricks of ice, pushed her into the pillows. Down. Lumpy. Untended to for a few days, maybe longer. She became cruelly aware of the body above her, as though the pocket of air between them were crushing her chest as he moved, shifted, found careful balance amongst the sheets. He kissed her repeatedly, impatiently, as if waiting for some kind of reward for his affections; however she neither resisted nor encouraged his advances. Eventually, though, he seemed to tire of bruising her lips, and after a brief pause unceremoniously pulled her towel away, studying her body for several long moments before reaching down to explore in a manner almost curious between her legs. She couldn't help the sharp intake of breath, even if she curbed any vocal exclamation; his fingers were cold and his actions invariably a prelude to more, to violation, to pain. This action seemed to pause him in his unsteady movements: he glanced up into her eyes, frowning.

"What?"

"N-nothing," She replied dutifully, but this did not seem to pacify him: he hissed a little in the back of his throat, twitched his bony fingers a little, irritably. She felt another gasp rise in her throat; he silently noted this, moved a little more, calculated his actions according to her vocal response. He kept his eyes on hers, in his expression something ferocious - so much so that she hardly realised that he was carefully disrobing, practiced fingers flipping open buttons then working his belt loose and unzipping his fly until he had paused with his hand at his crotch, as though second guessing himself at the last minute. He hissed irritably, seemingly at himself, and shaking his head found hold on her hips to sink unsteadily into her skin. His breaths came thick against her collar as he pressed his nose to her neck, finding some kind of rhythm in movement that was neither desperate nor painful.

"You're not even trying," He huffed as his hands sought better purchase on the backs of her legs, where the fat and muscle was thickest, his palms though sweating still cool to the touch. She hadn't even realised she was supposed to be trying, and had never known how - but to please him, she bucked her hips a little against his stony skin, eliciting from his lips something of a groan.

She always felt self conscious when the true Nobodies saw fit to abuse her, but she could not recall feeling quite so simply naked before; he to all intents and purposes was still fully clothed bar his open shirt and leather fabric pulled away only enough for sexual interaction. She was a vulnerable creature to his whims, but the fear that usually accompanied such evenings for all his brusque behaviour seemed to have melted away in the light of his unsteady penetration and each uneven breath rasping against her skin. It still hurt, but only because he was cold and her cuts and bruises were still tender, and though the experience wasn't exactly pleasant, nor was it the same agony that she had come to expect.

Almost as soon as he had begun, each pant became a gasp and after a brief moment of tension, he pulled away, wiped himself off with a tissue from the bedside table, and replaced his clothes. He neither spoke nor gave her a second glance as he worked; there was a terseness in the way his skeletal fingers fought each button, almost as though he were embarrassed by his actions. She, seeking not to further discomfort him, glanced away to further inspect the room, noting the dressing gown that hung on the back of the door, the rack of dog eared newspapers in the corner, an old and fading photograph tacked to the wall beside the book case. There were two figures gazing back at her, both in white laboratory coats and both distantly familiar. A young child, hand tight around a tall and narrow figure with the same flaxen hair and sharp features. Bar age, there was little difference between the subject of the photograph and the Nobody fussing particularly at the foot of the bed - only that the younger man was smiling.

Transfixed by this alien creature gazing absently at her from the photograph, she hardly noticed that he was watching her, shirt now buttoned up to his neck and hair hanging flat around his face.

"Sorry," She mumbled automatically. He made some kind of grunt, but whether in recognition of her apology or irritation she couldn't tell. But he seemed to sense that she had been studying the photograph, as he turned to regard it for a moment before dismissing its friendly subjects.

"A ghost," was all he had to say on the matter. The springs creaked in protest as he left the bed, all angular bones and sharp knees, and again as he pulled her naked body into his arms. She could feel what little muscle he had straining to support her weight, and indeed he wobbled as he reached the bathroom, set her more roughly than perhaps he would have liked down on the stool by the bath as he once again set about struggling to turn on the stiff taps. Instead of directing the flow to the shower, however, he held his hand in the water until he deemed it a suitable temperature, then plugged the bath to let it fill. He pulled from the shelf a bottle of bubble bath, emptying a generous amount into the swirling water.

"Hygiene is of the utmost importance," He said as he worked, twisting the taps to and fro in an attempt to maintain constant temperature from the intermittent pipes. "Even for Nobodies. Especially for Nobodies. Potions may heal over injuries, but they are never effective remedy for disease. If even the smallest laceration develops an infection, the consequences will be messy at best."

He seemed to speak not for the purposes of dialogue but simply to fill the silence, as though the lack of words made him uncomfortable. She wondered, briefly, if he spoke to himself when alone - but she doubted it; he looked like the kind of person who was calmed by the silence of solitude.

"Most of them, of course, understand the principle," He added as an afterthought, "But it's a pity that the same logic doesn't seem to extend to others."

About this he seemed somewhat bitter.

She nodded dutifully and at his command stood and climbed into the now full bath. The water, thankfully, was neither cold nor scalding: she sank deep into the bubbles and let the water sooth away the ache of her muscles. He watched her as she had in her earlier shower, but there was something more in his eyes now that she couldn't quite place. Something almost... melancholy.

She nearly jumped when he, as though forgetting himself, reached absently out to brush his cold fingertips against her cheek: but at her movement he quickly snapped away, pretended that the cracks in the ceiling were far more interesting instead.

She took a moment to observe him, the way that now he was no longer young he moved a little slowly, his slumped posture and long fingers twitching restlessly. His body beneath the heavy folds of his starched shirt not merely slender but starved to the point of emaciation. He did not, on closer inspection, appear to have any authority by which to judge others on personal health; although flawlessly clean he was something of a haggard creature, victim to a brilliant scientific mind with little care for bodily trials and pleasures.

Then why...?

"You're not much like a witch," He said quite suddenly, as though he has been considering this choice of words for some time. She obediently turned this observation over in her mind too: and slowly, from the clutter and damage of age, and the warm, soapy bubbles in the bath, she stumbled upon a fitting reply.

"You're not much like a Nobody."

She was not like the others: too naive, too predisposed to illogical action and the pretence of emotions; he was a more alien creature still, all unexpected depths in his eyes and fitful nostalgia of the memories from another world.

This, surprisingly, elicited some kind of laugh from him, indistinguishable from a cough but with a forgiving ear.

"Perhaps," He said, then frowned and stood abruptly, making for the door with unusual hurry. "A Dusk will bring you suitable night-clothes. I have work to do."

"At this time of night?" She asked, momentarily forgetting her place. He paused, hand at the door, his posture a little too lacking to have been purely accounted for by fatigue. Glancing back at her, he offered nothing bar a clipped "yes", but deep within acid green there was shame in his eyes. She almost spoke, either to ague or apologise, but then he had slipped away without farewell. She watched the light behind the ill-fitting bathroom door until it was duly extinguished, then rinsed her body of bubbles and huddled in the old, fraying towel, waiting for a pair of freshly ironed pyjamas to be delivered to her.

The empty room, when she stepped into it, had a loneliness about it, the flickering light a little colder, the clutter as though now symptomatic less of a busy life than painful, neurotic isolation.

She brushed her hand against the old leatherback spines on the bookshelf, glancing over their faded golden lettering. Memories; she could feel them thick and misty around the room, diluted a little by age but still powerful with the recollection of emotions. Alone with them, she sensed their gentle song from the last vestiges of a lost and distant past in the way that something out of place in a familiar room, once noticed, is impossible to ignore. She could not control them, of course; from their subjects was missing the Boy, but she _felt_ them unlike the ways in which she had ever encountered memories before, some strange magic that kept her exploring the dingy room, climbing under the heavy quilt where they were the most crowded, something of a warm and sleepy consistency that was only subtly marbled with ever-present loneliness.

It was a few hours later that he returned from his studies, the clinical creature that she had known from the corridors and arguing with his superiors as though he still had the heart for indignancy. She feigned sleep as he approached, feeling ashamed, steadying her breath to the faintest of whispers. He studied her critically for a moment - she could feel his baleful eyes on her back - before hissing in frustration and roughly shaking her shoulder to rouse her.

"What are you doing here?"

She pretended to wake, groggy and delirious.

"I thought I dismissed you," He said gruffly, just a little too quickly to merely signify irritation. She didn't reply, searching his eyes. "You are dismissed!" He snapped at her when she didn't speak, striking out at her bones, but with little malice. She barely felt the blow, but the shame in his eyes and in the downwards curve of his thin mouth, she recognised.

"Get out," He said shrilly. "_Get out_!"

She couldn't manipulate the memories - but she could _feel_ them like the humidity of a hot summer evening in the air, so she brushed her tiny fingertips against his hollow cheek the way his mother always used to, kissed his lips how he'd always imagined but whether through introversion or poor luck had not seen realised, and pulled him down, heavy leather coat and all, into the blankets.

"Leave," He mumbled without conviction; but he was already pulling her into a desperate and painful embrace.

She didn't want to return to her topside quarters, where agony and humiliation was waiting at the hands of her Lord and master. This room was close and warm with memories, a distraction from hollow half existence. For comfort, she tried to peel away his cloak, but he remained stubbornly clothed in spite of her feeble attempts to disrobe him.

Eventually they found some kind of harmony in a loose-limbs-tight-fingertips embrace beneath the quilting. But it was a while before he fell into sleep, and even then his slumber was fitful.

She had already been broken by the time she reached him, but he had never been whole.


	80. 159 Knowing

**159 - Knowing**

"Alright, so I'm reacting this haloalkane with this benzene ring, and I'm using an aluminium chloride catalyst. What are my products?"

"Dunno."

"But aren't you even _curious_?"

Ienzo flicks at his pencil and sticks out his tongue. Although Even perched him upright on one of the laboratory stools, Ienzo has gone through the natural progression to having his face an inch away from the desk, two of the legs of the stool off the ground and his butt sticking out as far as it will go without him toppling gracelessly to the floor. Even, sighing under his breath, knocks the stool back down onto four legs.

"And don't do that. It's not safe."

Ienzo yawns loudly, but makes no further acknowledgement of Even's chiding.

"Look, I'm trying to give you an_ education_," Even says, overenunciating again. Ienzo fires off a withering stare that conveys exactly what his views are on the matter: if he wants an education, he'll go to the library, which is exactly where he would be right now if certain scientists weren't trying to drill aromatic chemistry into his head.

Even sighs loudly.

"Alright. What about biology?"

"No," Ienzo says, which puts an end to that lesson.

"You ought to be grateful," Even sniffs. "The finest resources and minds in Radiant Garden and you want to..." He pinches his nose- "_Read books_."

Even doesn't have anything against books, as such. He has plenty of them in the laboratory: log tables, reference books, collections of articles and all kinds of journals. But Ienzo wants to immerse himself in _stories_. Fiction. Fantasy worlds. That's all very well, but it's just not _relevant_.

Ienzo doodles meaningless patterns on the side of his notebook, which is full of Even's wonky hexagons and a lot of Ienzo really not caring about phenylketones.

Even groans.

"How about-" He hesitates, the next word obviously painful for him, "_Physics_?"

Ienzo tosses his pencil across the desk. He could work out its velocity, displacement and acceleration in his head if he wanted to. Ienzo is stunningly intelligent, perhaps even more than Even. But none of this is interesting in the _slightest_; Ienzo doesn't just not know why you have to react aromatic compounds under reflux, he honestly doesn't _care_.

He hops down off his stool and stops past Even's shins.

"There's more to life than science, Even," He says scathingly, and disappears towards the library.

But Even doesn't know that. Even's never understood the things that are _really_ important, like people and relationships and philosophy and love. That's why Even lives in an apartment that is functionally efficient but has no soul, why Even doesn't have a girlfriend, why Even only feels comfortable when surrounded by bubbling reaction flasks and the sterile whites and greys of his laboratory. And it's probably also why after Ienzo's parents died Ansem the Wise delegated his care to Even.

* * *

I really need to work on my characterisation skills, and since everything else I'm writing is silly, I'm going to do a few prompts and things to brush up.


	81. 161 Gold

**161 - Gold**

I look at you, the girl with the golden hair, and I shrink further into the shadows on the wall.

My head is only just beginning to lose its bald baby shine and I watch you, with your pretty blonde locks, speak in muted tones to my master while I seethe with jealously at your fortunes. My fuzzy new hair is the colour of my heavy, choking coat. Yours rests on your bare shoulders where the cut of your pretty white dress reveals your skin. And I've seen your eyes, hiding in the shadows; I found myself transfixed by the shade. I never knew the name before I asked my master, but it reminds me of things I can't quite recall, things I loved long before I existed.

I don't know, it's frustrating. They remind me of _something_, your eyes, something warm but also cool, something that moves and sparkles, more erratic and alive than these sterile laboratories. The images flash and flicker in my mind, elusive like my master's perfect results, and it's frustrating, and I'm jealous of your eloquence, your golden hair, the pattern on your sandals that I know has a name but that never quite comes back to me, your little pink lips and your beautiful baby blue yes.

I asked my master for your blue eyes and he told me all in good time; I didn't even realise that time could be good or bad. This must be a bad time, because I still don't have them, just the same milky white face and milky white eyes like always.

You don't notice me here. I don't think you even know I exist. You speak to my master with a polite voice, nothing like my crass, robotic attempts at the spoken word, and he replies in his own fluent speech. I listen intently to your exchange, of bookish things that I don't understand and of the Organisation that surrounds me but of which I know little. Then you leave, and I watch your smooth legs, the soles of your sandals bouncing away from your heels as you leave. My legs are prickly with a fine mesh of hair, but I think that if I peeled away that pretty white dress your whole body would be just as hairless, like I was when I was a baby. Strange. You transfix me.

"Xion," My master says when you have gone, turning to where I hide behind the door. Guiltily, I creep out, into his arms. He wears the same coat that I do, but I want a pretty dress, the same colour as your eyes, perhaps, even though my hair is an ugly colour and it won't ever grow long enough to fall over my shoulder like yours does.

He pulls my hood down. I scowl, and return it to its rightful position so it covers my porcelain face.

"Why can't I have eyes like hers," I say, awkwardly, ambling to a stool and heaving my unfamiliar limbs onto the seat.

"You won't remember you asked for them anyway," My master tells me, which he says a lot. It scares me: is that what happened to my other memories, the ones that warp and fade like dreams? But he doesn't seem to think so; he tells me that I am still young, just a few weeks old, and already I've forgotten those first days of my existence. But he smiles a little, crookedly, and reaches down to brush his gloved fingers over my eyelids. "All in good time, my dearest."

"Do you love her," I ask. He chuckles, humourlessly.

"Of course not. I'm a Nobody. We can't feel love."

"Is she a Nobody."

"... Of sorts. She's an unusual - and fascinating - case."

I agree with my master. You are unusual and fascinating. I close my blank eyes and imagine you. Unlike my half-memories, your shiny hair and reserved smile swims back easily. I smile too. You are fascinating. Everything about you is pretty. I want all of it instead of my white doll's face and stubbly eyebrows and fuzzy black hair. I'm not pretty. I'm not ever going to be pretty. Only my master sees any virtue in me, mumbling my name in the laboratories late at night, admiring his own workmanship as he gives me another routine check up.

My features begin to solidify, but I don't forget you. My ugly black hair grows longer, into lumps, then locks. My master teaches me to shave away the fine fur on my legs so my skin is smooth like yours. I ask for a dress, one that's baby blue like your eyes. But he laughs and tells me to put on my coat like a good little girl, and I never get a dress.

I still watch you whenever you come down, even when it seems strange to recall that I ever didn't have hair of my own, that there was a time when I couldn't talk in anything more than a monotone. I'm still too shy to speak to you, but I chat to my master about you. I learn your name. Like you, it's pretty. It rolls off my tongue. I say it again and again. My master tells me off, so I think it instead, over and over and over in my head. I wait in the shadows for you to come and go, I learn where I can have the best view of you when you stand in the light and the fluorescent glow of the lamps bounces off your golden hair just so perfectly, like you're a beautiful reflection, and I imagine myself in a baby blue dress with hair falling over my shoulder the way yours does, and I watch you until I almost step out of my hiding places. But I never manage it, not quite.

One day when my ugly black hair is falling around my ears and my master is talking of cutting it for the first time, I wake up and look in the mirror to see that my milky eyes are taking on a hint of blue. I can barely contain my excitement; I rush to tell him even though he's busy working and doesn't like to be disturbed.

"Master, master, they're blue, they're _blue_, just like hers, just like Naminé's," I say, all in a rush, tugging at his sleeves as he tries to write. He just shoos me away to change out of my nightgown but he has a look of pride on his face. I remember, vaguely, that my blue eyes were going to arrive in good times. Good times are here, I think. Today is a good day. I watch you ever more closely when you pop down with some papers and reports from the Organisation, of whom I still know nothing, and I smile the way you do because I might have ugly black hair and a big black coat that enshrouds me, but the good times are here and soon I'll have beautiful baby blue eyes just like yours.

"She's almost ready," My master says to you as he brews you a cup of tea. I notice your delicate hands. My hands are also small, but you hold the cup with a grace I don't possess, speak maturely and softly. But my eyes are almost blue; one day I will have that poise and elegance just like you. "She's already taking on some of Kairi's characteristics."

The words of my master pass me by. I am too preoccupied by watching you from the shadows, the girl with the golden hair.

"It's happening sooner than you predicted."

"She's terribly shy, though-" My master glances in my direction, momentarily, but his eyes seem to sweep past me. I barely register him. You've moved into the light that shines on you perfectly. "- But then again, the Superior _is_ desperate for results..."

"Roxas isn't performing as well has he'd hoped," You say, quietly. "He's a slow learner."

"It can't be helped," My master agrees. He sets down his mug of steaming coffee. "Not today. She's not ready yet. But soon."

You nod, and turn to leave. Your beautiful eyes happen to pass my direction and I don't know if you catch me lurking but for the briefest of seconds our eyes meet in a single, wonderful moment. But then you have turned away, and then you are gone.

A few days later, you return to speak again with my master. But the timing is strange, bad perhaps, because I am still playing with his sleeves, trying to get him to notice my new perfect blue eyes.

"Vexen?"

"Ah, yes. Naminé. Do come in."

I scuttle behind my master, seeking shadows from which to observe you, but he soon pulls me out into the light. I shy away from you when you look at me, abashed by my featureless black hair and brand new pretty eyes, but you don't seem to sense my embarrassment, stepping forwards and reaching out with a little smile.

"Don't be scared. It won't hurt."

"She doesn't _know_," My master snaps, pushing me forwards a little. I stumble towards you.

"Naminé," I say, and almost repeat your name again and again, like I always like to. You chuckle, strange, not like my master does, lighter, warmer, more familiar.

"That's me."

"Naminé, Naminé, Naminé," I say.

"She has something of a thing about you," My master explains tiredly.

"Do you think she senses a connection?"

"I shouldn't expect so. She doesn't remember anything."

I don't pay much attention to the conversation. You are so close. I can see the way every strand of your pretty golden hair falls in the light, every black eyelash and pretty blue swirl in your eyes. It reminds me of something, something familiar, something I can't recall.

"Naminé," I say again. You smile, not like my master smiles. You look sad. And you reach out for me, the palm of your hand touches my ugly black hair, and I cry out when something is suddenly inside of my mind and stretching outwards, taking away all of the things that I loved so dearly, those smooth legs and that pretty frilly dress and golden hair and beautiful baby blue eyes.

"I'm so sorry," You say, but I don't hear, too busy desperately scrabbling for memories as you sweep them away.

* * *

"Xion?"

I've been watching the moon for some time now. Admittedly, there's not much else to see from my bedroom window: the wavering city hurts my eyes, and the clouds in the sky twist and form shapeless patterns that distract me from them.

It's the other girl, the young one who doesn't wear the Organisation's uniform. She has a clipboard in her hand, the other toying with a pencil. I watch her for a moment, then return to the moon. It's the only solid object out there, and even it hangs impossibly in the sky. Frustrating.

"Vexen sent me to fetch you," The girl says. I don't immediately respond, but I hear no movement, so eventually I break from my post and follow her down flights of stairs to the basement laboratories where Vexen, the Organisation's doctor, is waiting.

"Ah, Xion," He says as I enter the room, without turning around. "It's time for your medical exam."

I watch his back as he works, his big body moving gracelessly. He picks up beakers, inspects them, sets them down again with meticulous care so no liquids can slop over the sides.

"Please, take a seat."

I obey, reluctantly. He finds his forms and begins to check through his lists: he takes my temperature (which is normal) and my blood pressure (which is average) and a dozen other things. When he is finished, he nods approvingly, and lets me go. The girl with the golden hair is waiting for me outside, but she looks a little short of breath. She must have been elsewhere, running other errands perhaps, for Vexen, or the other members of the Organisation. Who is she, in her short white dress and decorative sandals, a kind of maid for the superior Nobodies?

"You're not very talkative, are you?"

We walk the arduous journey up all of those flights of stairs again.

"It's just, it would be nice to have another girl to talk to. Larxene-" She lowers her voice, and glances around nervously- "Doesn't count. Vexen's very accommodating but, well, he's not a young man any more, and he has... different issues."

She's will within her rights to talk to me, of course. I'm well within my rights not to respond. But she doesn't speak again until we're right outside my bedroom door, and even then, she just asks if she can come in. I leave the door open for her. She sits on my bed.

"Oh, Xion," She says; "I'm so sorry. We hated to do this, we really did."

She stands, and reaches over to touch my shoulder. I can feel her fingers through the leather of my coat. Warm, at once strange and familiar.

"You were like a daughter to him. As much as circumstances would allow."

I look at the other girl, critically. She has eyes just like mine. She, too, studies me for a moment, but she's quick to look away.

"Xion, there's... I'd be in a lot of trouble if they found out I'd given you these, but there are some things I want you to have."

She rummages around in a pocket and pulls out two items, one I recognise as a photograph, the other an unidentifiable object I've never seen the likes of before. She hands them to me. I study the figures in the photograph, in a landscape that is gold and blue and paler blue still, two boys who seem almost familiar in frustrating ways. I don't like it. I put it down, thumb over the second object. It's rough on one side, smooth on the other. I flip it over and over, trying to understand.

"It's a shell," The other girl tells me. "It's... it's important."

I put the shell next to the photograph, and make no comment.

"This is no place for you, Xion," She says finally, touching my shoulder again. "It's not safe. He's... the Superior... he's just..." But she shakes her head. "I mustn't say. But please try to remember. It's... it's for the best."

She looks away, as though ashamed.

"Oh, I'm so sorry."

I study the moon, its strange curves and contours. And, without quite realising, I reach up and brush my gloved fingers over the back of her hand.

"Naminé." I say.

"Yes," She says, and somehow I know what's coming next; "That's me."

She's smiling, but sadly. Our hands still touch, warm in the strangest of ways.

"You're to be inducted into the Organisation tomorrow," She murmurs, "Number XIV. Xion."

I look at her golden hair, falling over one shoulder the way it always does. I want to crop it back to a tidy bob like mine, keep the spare hairs like rays of sunshine, tied up with a ribbon. And her baby blue eyes, _my_ baby blue eyes, and her bare shoulders prickling a little from the cold.

"Why not you?"

She shrugs.

"Oh, I'm not one of you. I'm different."

"Fascinating," I say, without realising.

"Yes, that's what he says."

Somehow her hand has moved against my shoulder, holding my palm, close and comforting. She doesn't speak again. She doesn't need to. We watch each other's baby blue eyes for a long time, and then, reluctantly, she leaves.

I turn back to my window, but I don't look at the moon. I close my eyes and remember, there, as clear as glass, her warm hands and sad smile and beautiful golden hair.

* * *

I wrote this for you, if you ever get around to reading it.


End file.
